The Reunion
by hoolihoops
Summary: My interpretation of how John and Sherlock will meet after the Reichenbach Fall. Includes a mystery or two along the way. If not a fan of bromance or mild john and sherlock slash, don't read. BBC Sherlock. Packed full of angst & fluff.
1. Beginning Chapter

_since there's a lot of controversy about the whole '' sort of subject, i just thought i'd share how i would personally love the reunion to be like.  
>clever title i know, but i'm really all for the story more than the title - i couldn't think of anything!<br>still, this is just the introduction but with the full story i promise bromance, emotion and god dam ACTION.  
>enjoy!<em>

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><p>John sighed, with a bowed head, and knocked quietly at the door of his former accommodation of 221B Baker Street.<p>

He stepped back from the door and looked up fondly at the tall building, gazing at the windows and the wilting foliage in the plant pots of the window. Mrs Hudson had forgotten to water them again.

At that moment, John was flooded with memories. He remembered the wonderful times he spent living there and the devious crimes and cases he had solved with his companion. He squeezed his lips together distressingly and looked down to the ground. His left hand was shaking tremendously as he clenched his fist and bashed it frustratingly against his leg. He leant on his cane and patiently waited.

Painfully swallowing a lump in his throat, he looked up to the dark door to see it open and the bright, cheery face of Mrs Hudson enter his view. She was wearing a beautifully Mrs Hudson-esque long dress, which was a deep, luxurious purple and had a thin plum sash tied around her waist. She hurried to him, cooing and greeting him as she did, gave him a quick hug and helped him inside.

"Ooo, it's getting cold outside there isn't it, John?" She softly spoke, helping John out of his black jacket and revealing another one of his cuddly, woollen jumpers. This one today he was wearing was grey, Sherlock's favourite, meaning he had been to the cemetery.

"It's been ages since I've last saw you love! It's been quite a while hasn't it?"

"Yes, it has Mrs Hudson. Yes it has." He nodded vaguely, barely in reality. He swallowed again and watched her as she hung up his coat swiftly and turned back towards him, holding her hands together and sighing at him.

"Oh what are we going to do with you, aye John?" She murmured, giving him a hug. "All of Sherlock's stuff is still upstairs you know; I haven't even tried to clean it out."

The talk of Sherlock stabbed John's heart clearly, but went unnoticed by Mrs Hudson. All the while, John listened and squeezed his eyes shut, grabbed his cane tighter and stood tenser and tenser.

"You know it's been a good couple of months since you were last here and it's been a good 3 years all of his clutter has been sat upstairs! I just don't know what to do with it, it's not like I can just bring it all down and clear it all out – if only it was that easy with my hip and all!"

John smiled, opening his eyes. Mrs Hudson did like to talk about her hip.

"Yes well Mrs Hudson, I've just came round to say goodbye." John said, nodding when the words were out as if he had relieved himself. "I'm leaving London."

Noticeably hurt, Mrs Hudson tipped her head to the side and said, "Oh no, really dear? Oh that's a shame, you'll have to come in for a cup of tea and biscuits before you leave! I'll have to call Lestrade too, weren't you good friends with him? Been a while since you've seen him too, I wonder?"

By this time Mrs Hudson was well into her flat, in her cosy kitchen already turning on the kettle and preparing the tea. John had missed her little ramblings and forgotten how involved in a conversation the woman got. He shambled into her flat, all the while straining when he leant on his psychosomatic limp. Mrs Hudson was babbling away to herself about the countless times the police stormed into their flat when Sherlock was alive, but John was distant. After Sherlock's death John had learned the art of mentally blocking any material that became painful to listen, touch, smell, hear or look at. He was now having one of these episodes. He had also become accustomed to doing just this at his 'regular' therapist sessions. Of course she noted this down and, of course, he read it.

"Oo, yes John I forgot to mention! Have you been reading the papers lately? All this nonsense about a new killer on the loose! Apparently he's been leaving letters about at the victims houses and ooo, it's horrible business, John it really is." Mrs Hudson said as she came over to sit herself on the sofa and placed two mugs of steaming hot tea on the small coffee table. John's attention span then rejoined Mrs Hudson as he smelt the sweet smell of her tea.

He slowly lowered himself onto the sofa next to Mrs Hudson, twisting his facial expressions with the pain of his leg. It was then that he realised how beautifully furnished Mrs Hudson's flat was. It was small, yet cosy, and had multiple pieces of furniture referencing to dogs. China plates hung from the crockery showcase which all had beautifully hand painted pictures of small dogs; there were small, plush stuffed teddies of dogs – mostly terriers - which were accompanied by large cushions. There were photos here and there of one type of dog, most likely the same one in particular, which was a small, long haired, golden Yorkshire terrier. Everything in her flat just screamed the adorable and lovable Mrs Hudson.

John reached for his mug and took a sip. He let out a sigh and took in the information Mrs Hudson had just given, "Sorry, what did you say?"

"The papers love, they're full of it! Let me show you..." She said and she dashed over to her TV stand where she kept her magazines and newspapers, all neatly in a pile.

She shuffled around, mumbling to herself. She then found the paper she wanted, muttered an 'oh there you are!' and shuffled on back to John. It was a copy of The Sun, folded in half so only the title was legible. The newspaper proposed another one of its infamous catchy headlines. '**CRYPTIC KILLER'** it read. He unfolded it and read the first paragraph, it read as follows.

'_Creepy death letters were found at the scene of the murder of yet another victim, discovered by a source required to be known as anonymous, and the body is yet to be identified. Police are baffled by the letters and by the 'murdered' bodies, who tend to all be unwounded. 'These letters have been found at previous murder scenes and yes, all of the bodies are in the same sort of condition' Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard reports, 'and we are investigating a link... but there's no reported link so far...' None of The Sun's reporters have yet seized one of the letters to describe the input, but if you find one on your doorstep, you never know who's round the corner!'_

John smirked, "Not very professional."

"So why was it that you're going away, John?" Mrs Hudson pried, taking a sip from her tea. John read the page number of the interview and flicked through the paper.

"Oh it's just a.. umm... because I just can't..."

_Pause_

"Hang on a minute..?" John muttered, staring at the paper, now fully open on his lap.

He was gazing intensely, with squinted eyes, at a picture of an envelope. The envelope was brown in colour with a red, wax seal. He looked confused and bewildered. Mrs Hudson, seeing this, placed her hand on his shoulder.  
>"What's wrong, love? What is it?"<p>

John's eyes widened, he looked at her with his mouth ajar and eyes twinkling with fear.

"... That's Moriarty's seal... on the envelope... it's Moriarty."

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><p><em>so i've made Mrs Hudson have a little bit of a dog obsession - can you blame me? i think she'd be the perfect woman to love dogs! thanks for reading, i hope you enjoyed it. :)!<br>_**HRM**


	2. Chapter 2

_Okay, so this chapter is quite a bit smaller than the previous chapter - probably because it isn't as important, but I'd still read it with some interest anyway. Never know, the information could prove to be useful.  
><em>_Enjoy!_

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><p>"What do you mean you can't do anything?" John shouted angrily, slamming the newspaper down on Lestrade's glass desk.<p>

Lestrade sat back in his leather chair, looking pitiful up at the distressed man who stood at the opposite side of his desk. "Look, mate, I'm sorry but we've already said that we're investigating into it and well, quite frankly, what you're telling me isn't making any sense... Moriarty's dead."

John furiously seized the paper and opened up the newspaper to the correct page, pointing at the picture of the envelope, "_That..."_ John said looking from the paper to Lestrade repeatedly "is _Moriarty's _seal. It is. I know it is! And you bloody well know it is too."

Lestrade shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, "But you and I both know mate that he's dead. Shot himself; the arrogant prick."

"Well maybe he's got some new guy working for him!" Watson interrupted aggressively, "Maybe there's a new Moriarty, his co-worker and he's using his seal..."

"Or maybe, John, it's just some deranged lunatic looking for a way to stir up the past and wind someone up! Look, John it's nothing, alright? What I said in the paper was just to shut them up, there's nothing really going on."

"Oh, what and you thought saying that there may be a link between these cases were really going to shut the press up?" Watson said bitterly, raising his eyebrows sarcastically and leaning on his cane.

Lestrade sighed and soon enough rose from his chair, walked round to face John and sat on the edge of his desk, folding his arms. "John, I know that anything about, well, Moriarty really makes your blood boil..."

"I'll never forgive the bastard." John muttered harshly, shaking his head slightly.

"...but I think it's really time for you to just let it go. Moriarty died and..." Lestrade paused, thinking carefully of how to phrase his next sentence. "Sherlock died. There's no bringing either of them back, especially not Sherlock."

John squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away; wishing he never heard those words. He finally opened his eyes and looked at the paper, re-reading the title on the front. He needed to guide the conversation to something unrelated to Sherlock.

"But what about the letters... how many letters have there been?" he asked.

"A letter with every murder so... this one would be the third." Lestrade nodded, confirming the data in his head.

"Who are they addressed to?" John muttered, as if talking to himself.

"John, mate, you know I can't just flog out all the details to you anymore. You're just a doctor to us now."

John, clearly hurt, raised his head to look at Lestrade, who was standing arms crossed and sympathetically watching him. He straightened himself up, rolling back his shoulders and pursing his lips. He nodded his head, blinking a few times and steadied his cane once more.

"Right... okay." John said with dignity. "If that's all I am to you lot now then."

"Oh, come on John I didn't mean it like that..." Lestrade said quickly, moving around on the edge of the desk he was perched on.

"No, no Lestrade. I'm not having it. Call me if you ever need a _doctor_." John replied bitterly as he limped swiftly out of the door of Lestrade's office and out of Scotland Yard.

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><p><em>John has the a-tti-tude! Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it :)<br>_**HRM**


	3. Chapter 3

_So here's the follow up for the previous chapter, this was so painful to write. T_T i love jawn so much.  
>Enjoy! *sniff-needstissue-sniff<em>

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><p>By the time John had returned back to 221B, after his brash exit, Mrs Hudson had left. At first he was worried, concerned of what might have happened but he soon found the sticky note Mrs Hudson had left for him on the locked front door to her flat. John peeled it off the door and read it.<p>

"_Gone to get some more milk. See you when I see you. Mrs H x" _

He nodded to himself and stood in the corridor, uncertain of where his events may take him next. The silence of nostalgia poured through him. With Lestrade's words throbbing around in his head, John raised his thumb and index finger to his eyes and squeezed them. _"Sherlock died. There's no bringing either of them back, especially... not... Sherlock." _The words seemed to whirl around in his head over and over and over again. John breathed in weakly, his inhalation trembling. He made his way to the front door. It was all beginning to get too much.

As John limped slowly towards the door, placing his hand on the door knob and as he turned it and began to steady himself to open the door, he heard soft, hushed music playing. It was beautiful and slow, with a heartfelt sorrowful echo to it. It rang out through the flat and whistled its way through to John. It wasn't just any instrument playing this tune, this was the violin.

John's heart froze.

He froze.

His trembling left hand suddenly just froze.

The hairs on the back of his neck seemed to erect and dance about to this haunting melody. John took his hand away from the doorknob and quietly turned away from the door. He rested in the same position for what seemed like forever, in order to refrain from making any sounds to disrupt the music and there he let the melody play through him; he listened with fondness and fear. He turned to the stairs, unable to breathe. The music waltzed around in his head, dancing and whirling and singing and humming every so quietly. It was light, hushed and distant, almost like a dream.

He slowly and silently climbed the stairs up to his past lodgings. All the while, unable to blink or breathe, focused on the harmony. The pain in his leg seemed to disappear with the reality of what he was doing. The sound of the violin seemed to play more quietly the closer he got; it became eerier with every pace he took towards the room. He soon found himself to the door of the flat and slowly, John placed a hand on the door knob. He gripped it tightly and hung his head, finding himself tearfully muttering "_please, please, please..._" and closing his eyes. He squeezed his eyelids together as tight as he did with the door knob and his hand and listened intensely to the melody.

There John stood for another while, just engaging in deep thought with the music. It was so beautiful, so poignant that he wanted the composition to last for a lifetime. John let out a deep, long, quivering sigh and the music seemed to quicken in pace. Soon enough the tune was in rhythm with his ridiculously fast heart beat, which pounded like a drum. The violinist was now playing sharp, skilful, prompt notes which strung together in an intense masterpiece, filling his heart with even more fear and excitement.

John breathed in huskily.

He swung open the door.

The music seized.

He entered in a hurry, looking around in pure desperation to see his old friend, the tall slender body of the consulting detective, holding his beloved violin in his neck and staring out the window as he did.

No one.

Nothing.

The violin lay on Sherlock's wide leather chair, as it had been left 3 years ago, coated in dust and mocking him. John swallowed and blinked rapidly as if holding back tears. The pain in his leg hit him with a blow, accompanied by the concentrated shaking of his hand. He swiftly walked up and down the flat, checking in the bedrooms and the bathroom and even behind the curtains.

"_It was just me. It was all in my head. It was all in my imagination. Again."_ John thought to himself as he retreated to the middle of the flat, to stand and stare at nothing.

He brought up a hand and wiped it down his face as a single tear fell from his eye. It bled down his cheek and transferred onto his hand, which then he rubbed onto his jeans.

John took a deep breath, his gasp quivering again. It took him a while before he fully returned back into his military standard. He drew back his shoulders, held his head high and stood with his pride to carry. His eyes were full with misery. He nodded to assure his termination with his time being at 221B and made his way downstairs to catch a cab.

He would return back to Mrs Hudson later, he needed to see his therapist.

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><p><em>Must go away to my mind garden and find the bit where it's dedicated to jawn and his feels. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it as much as i did writing it. :)<em>

**HRM**


	4. Chapter 4

_why do i do such nasty things to our poor john. bless him. still, here's the next instalment. this chapter is back to longer size, probably because i got a bit carried away - but doesn't that happen to the best of stories?  
>enjoy!<em>

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><p>The waiting room has always been one of the worst places in the world to be for John Watson. He would trade the experience of lingering in a small, dingy room whilst the peculiarly dressed receptionist pounds away furiously at her keyboard for Sherlock's maniac 'boredom' shooting any day.<p>

Sherlock.

That's why he was here.

John remained in the same position for the good 20 minutes his therapist, Ella Stockton, kept him waiting; his head hung low and nestled into his chest with his cane close beside him and his hands in his lap. Once he was finally inside his psychiatrist's generously sized room, he wasn't happy.

In fact, John wasn't ready.

He limped into the room, throwing a glance at her before shaking her hand and taking his usual seat, the comfortable brown, leather armchair. She said her greetings, sat down at her chair opposite him and pulled out the dreaded notebook in which she wrote down her theories and questions about John.

John sat there, as he normally did, stretching out his left hand from time to time, as he usually did and preparing his cane next to him, just so it was leaning against the arm of the chair, as he always did. But this time, something was different. His usual irate expression on his face when he was in the room wasn't there. Instead, it was replaced for a heartbreakingly empty gaze that he gave the floor for a good amount of time. He looked even more broken than when she saw him on the day that John 'accepted' Sherlock's death.

Silence.

"Says here John, that our last appointment was over 2 years ago." Ella finally said to break the silence, with a touch of sarcastic surprise in her tone, "What's made you come back?"

Silence.

Ella pressed for more, looking at her notebook and sighing. "Well?"

A longer silence.

John's stare never left the floor. His facial expressions were blank and his eyes were dull.

"John, what's wrong?" she asked quietly, leaning forward slightly in her chair.

John opened his mouth slightly, preparing himself for speech, but as hard as he tried, the lump in his throat blocked all meanings of communication. He moved his head slowly up and down, lying his chin in his chest then back up again, all the while trying to converse.

"It's alright John, just take your time." Ella reassured, watching him sorrowfully yet curiously.

John tried again. As painful as it was the words finally came to him. "I... heard Sherlock playing the violin." At the mention of his recollection, his eyes closed and jaw tightened. He swallowed hard. "I was at 221b and... it was music, like he used to compose..."

Ella was nodding, listening intently as well as scribbling notes into her slim notebook. He was still looking at the floor but more often than not closing his eyes to try and numb the effect of his words. He occasionally took a quick look at Ella but then moved his gaze to out the window or to stare vacantly at a motivational poster that was hung on the dark, mahogany walls of the room, not taking in any of the messages that they gave – "courage" and "strength" were just two of them.

"So you heard... music? Or was it just the odd notes of the violin?" Ella questioned.

John nodded slowly, still finding it difficult to talk. "It was the whole... music... all of it. It was a proper piece of music."

"And what did it sound like? Was it very distinct, very loud and clear? Or was it quite distant and quiet?"

John's eyes looked up to the ceiling; they were shining and glistening like glass.

"It was... quiet."

Ella nodded, again scrawling in her notebook. "Describe it to me."

John looked at her, direct eye contact, for the first time since he limped into the room. A confused expression surged over his face.

"What do you mean... explain it to you?" he said coldly and perplexingly. "It was music. Quiet and slow at the beginning and then when I got closer to the room it sped up and it was... just like normal music... the sort Sherlock would play. It sounded improvised."

Ella looked at him, gravely. "But then when you got into the room, it stopped?"

John nodded gradually.

Ella stopped and read back her notes, then looked back up at John. "John, I think you might have been having a pseudo-auditory hallucination. It can happen sometimes when you're under stress or you're severely depressed... and since Sherlock's death I haven't heard anything from you and I've been worried." Ella spoke softly, leaning back and placing her hands in her lap, raising one to stroke her hair back, although it was in a ponytail, as if by habit.

"How's your hearing, John?"

Again, John gave his therapist the same 'what-a-stupid-question' look she was all too accustomed to.

"My hearing? What the hell does any of this have to do with my hearing? I can hear fine. I can hear _you_ fine can't I?" he responded resentfully, raising his eyebrows.

"Okay, that's fine. I was just checking." Ella said, with her head down and writing. John read it, upside down of course, to say _'...not affected by hearing.'_

Silence.

'_Still has trust issues.'_

Ella nodded and looked back at her patient. "You were most likely having a hallucination. It can happen to any of us, especially those who have been inflicted by a great deal of trauma." She raised her eyebrows so that she knew John realized.

"But I heard him. He was there." He muttered dejectedly, watching outside the window.

"John... Sherlock's dead. He couldn't be in that flat playing the violin. You must understand. What you heard was in your head. A hallucination." She comforted.

Eventually, John anxiously nodded, not taking his eyes off the view outside.

_Silence._

"Sherlock's dead." She seemed to repeat in the same patronisingly comforting tone. John's left hand tightened into a fist.

"Sherlock's dead." She said again. John's jaw fastened tighter.

"Sherlock's dead."

"Sherlock's..."

"YES I KNOW!" John explosively shouted, immediately throwing his head round like a dog to eyeball his therapist.

She was staring at him, wide eyed and startled, breathing quickly and gripping onto the arm of her chair. Once he saw her expression, it was then his face dropped into a look of dread, into a look of fear.

She didn't say anything.

He was losing his mind.

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><p><em>i hope i haven't put anyone into chronic depression or anything with these chapters. poor jawn. thank you for reading and i hope you enjoyed it!<em> :)  
><strong>HRM<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

_Now I've gotta say, this chapter took me a while to plan because I generally didnt know what to do for it.  
>So i'm desperately sorry for yous who have added this to your give-me-email-updates and sat there yesterday screaming at the computer going 'WHEREISTHENEXTCHAPTERYO?YOUUPDATEEVERYDAY?' <em>

_so to say sorry, here's a nice chunky chapter for you. enjoy!_

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><p>After John's outburst of clear mental instability, Ella soon referred John to a psychiatrist who specialised in dysthymic disorder. From there, the psychiatrist prescribed John with the antidepressant Prozac and a year with a psychotherapist. Although John was visibly opposed to taking any sort of medication, the therapist, eventually, managed to talk John round and have him take the medication if she made his time in psychotherapy shorter. John didn't need someone else to prescribe medication to him, he was a doctor. He could look after himself just fine.<p>

It was a good week after his final therapist session with Ella when John finally gathered up his nerve and shook off his pride to collect his medication from the pharmacist. He had managed to convince his psychiatrist to leave his medication at the pharmacist rather than travelling all the way out to Barnard Park just to pick up a packet of pills. Being a doctor, John had the upper hand. The psychiatrist reluctantly agreed, trusting John since his medical background.

On that day, John awoke, after several hours of lucky sleep, in his dingy, grey flat in a particularly low mood. He wiped his eyes with his hands, trying to rub off the left over sleep that still clung desperately to his already tired eyes. His beige shirt and grey tracksuit bottoms (ie. his pyjamas) seemed to blend in miserably with the walls, the furniture and just about everything around him. The flat was a dull, grungy one that he rented out after Sherlock's death, when living at 221B on his own became too much. It was small, yes, but it was fine for a lonely, disheartened bachelor. The flat itself was no bigger than the floor plan of a small sized family house, just squeezing in one bathroom, a kitchen, a box bedroom and a lounge. His bedroom was occupied mostly with boxes of stuff that John owned and that he managed to move out of 221B before his psychosomatic limp kicked back in, this then meant that the amount of boxes that lived in his room weren't very many. His lounge was again very small in size and was painted in a deep, dark grey and the floors were covered, just about, in an shabby beige carpet, which was worn down by the countless times John tediously paced the room. Despite the size and the limited furniture, the room graciously owned a second-hand black television and freeview box and a luxurious, brown leather two-seater sofa, which held the title of John's bed. Everything else was just demure, much like John.

By late morning, John was ready and awake, but still tired, and in the cab on the way to the pharmacist. His mind was slow and drained, so much so that it took him a while to remember where his destination was in order to tell the cabbie. By the time John reached the pharmacist, London was busy and bustling with life. He got out of the cab and limped warily into the store, watching tourists and passersby as they energetically strolled through the street, how he envied their liveliness. As John walked up to the counter he browsed through the medication and healthcare that lay waiting to be purchased on the shelves, soon remembering the good times in his past profession.

"Mornin' Sir, how may I be of assistance?" an attractive young, blonde woman asked kindly. She smiled at John eagerly, her bright blue eyes twinkling in the bright light of the shop.

John gave her a succinct smile, leaning on his cane, and spoke about his prescription, briefly explaining his story. She had been the first woman (first stranger) John had had a social encounter with, besides Ella his therapist, since Sherlock died. He found her easy to talk to and interested and the two engaged in polite conversation. They exchanged names - John giving his and Annie giving hers.

"Okay, John... was it? Yeah, I'll go and fetch your medication. Won't be too long." Annie said, with much enthusiasm and giving him a good old cheeky wink. John grinned secretly.

He shuffled over to a line of comfortable chairs that sat next to the counter and there he waited, staring out of the large windows. It wasn't long, just like she said, before Annie was back with his prescription. There she read the name of the prescription aloud and handed the white paper bag to him. John said his thank-yous and stepped outside. He opened up the bag to see a slim, orange coloured, plastic container with a white screw top, containing his medication. John's eyebrows gave the look of disbelief and he closed the bag. There, John stood and watched the world around him before deciding where to go next. He saw several groups of tourists walked past him, eagerly snapping away with their big, bulky SLR cameras, he saw couples holding hands and discussing what they would be having for lunch, he saw businessmen in a hurry on their way to work – late he presumed - he saw single women pushing prams with their gorgeous, burbling babies inside and then, a certain figure took his gaze. He was tall, shifty looking and had a navy blue cap on, covering his face. The man walked past him swiftly, coming in contact with John's shoulder quite abruptly.

"Oi, watch it!" John shouted after him, making the young man look over his shoulder at John and revealing his eyes.

They were a piercingly, icy blue colour.

John swore he had seen them before.

The man seemed to quicken in pace. John started his pursuit. He stuffed his prescription into a pocket of his jacket and hobbled along after this mystery man. John was soon walking at such a pace that he had to refrain from walking on his cane and depend solely on his legs and try to forget about the pain in his limp. The man weaved skilfully in between the life that filled the pavements, leaving John struggling to catch up. But John was soon to close in on his target. The man took a sharp turn right, which soon came to a large sized park. The green was large and deserted, except for the odd one or two families sat with their children on the grass. John chased after his man, who looked back once again and this time in fear.

Unexpectedly, the man stopped and swiftly turned around to face John. John paced up to him boldly, receiving a thwack round the jaw, sending him down onto his knees. The man shook his fist off, groaning with pain.

"What the hell is your problem?" the target shouted at him, his voice high and distressed. The voice didn't match the eyes.

John stood back up and skilfully swiped the hat off the young man's head to reveal... a man. A nobody. John's heart sank. Sure, he had the brown hair and steel blue/grey eyes, but not the face. The face was different.

"I'm... so sorry... I just... thought you were someone I knew..." he muttered quickly and regrettably, returning the hat back to the young man, who was shaking his head in anger and clutching his fist into his stomach in pain.

"I'm so sorry..." John said, looking at the man in despair. The gentleman took pity on John, apologised about the punch and offered to buy him the cab to wherever he was headed, for John had chased his man into unknown parts of London. John gratefully accepted, shaking the man's hand before getting into the cab and heading off home.

Once back inside his flat, John was exhausted and tormented. He stood in front of his bathroom mirror and patted down his swelling on his face with a wet flannel. He winced every time he touched his injury. The events of the day ran through in his head. It didn't make any sense. He swore he saw Sherlock's eyes. For that fleeting second John saw him, he thought that maybe, just maybe, there may have been a chance that that brilliant man devised a plan to cheat his death.

But, like Sherlock Holmes himself said, nobody could be that clever. Nobody could come back from the dead.

John grimaced in pain of his new wound. He limped over to his sofa and sat rigidly, turning on the television to indulge in the world of escapism. John set his cane down next to him and leant over to the boring, wooden coffee table that stood between him and the television. He picked up today's paper, that he had bought up to him by his neighbour every morning, and unfolded it.

'**ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER MURDER, ANOTHER LETTER.' **it read.

John tossed it aside furiously. The television blurted out the same slogan.

'_So it's another day in London and the fourth mysterious letter has been found with a fourth tragic body, who we can confirm is Lyons Kingsley, a student studying at the University of Winchester. This young male was found by an anonymous source in a car park near a popular night club in Marylebone with one of these haunting letters with him. The conditions of his murder are, again, the same as the rest – unwounded. The police have informed us that the body has been murdered with no means of contact but will tell us nothing of the letters.'_

The same blurred image of the brown envelope with Moriarty's seal faded onto the screen whilst the reporter kept talking. John immediately switched it off and threw the remote down. He rested his elbows on his knees and put his head into his hands, running his fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes and took in a deep inhalation and exhaled deeply back out again.

"_It's all in my head... it's all in my head."_

John opened his eyes and spotted his coat lying next to him, with the white paper bag peeping out of the pocket. He sat upright and slowly took the pills from the paper bag. He analysed the container. Slim, easy to open. He read the dosage amount.

'_One pill, twice a day.'_

He stood up and limped to his kitchen and then poured himself out a glass of water. He unfastened the cap and popped two tablets into his mouth and swallowed, hard. He sighed and looked around his flat.

It was only a matter of days before he would be leaving London and this grotty little flat and all of the pain and suffering behind him. He looked into his bedroom, the door hanging open as it always did. There sat the boxes of his belongings, well half of it anyway. He needed to collect the rest before he left. But it was at Baker Street.

John shook his head, squeezing his eyes and lips tighter in distress. He couldn't go today. He just couldn't. He would leave it for tomorrow. John nodded at his decision and drinking the rest of his water, made his way slowly and hopelessly to his couch to sleep off the heavy emotions for another day.

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><p><em>no John isn't going to be hooked on pills if you're thinking that, he knows better. he's a doctor. and i know better, as i'm the writer.<br>i'm not going to give too much away but i thought i'd say... we're getting **closer** to the best part. ehehehehehee!  
>thank you ever so much for taking your time to read these chapters, as i say every time, and i hope you've enjoyed this one! :)<em>

**HRM**


	6. Chapter 6

_Next instalment. I can't say too much otherwise I'm going to explode and I might spoil it for all of yous. This isn't such a great chapter but I had to write it otherwise nothing would make sense.  
>God i need to shut up.<br>__Hope you enjoy! _

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><p>It was the morning of the day before John was going to leave London forever to move up to Cardiff and stay with Harry to join her in her 'new life'. At first, John was hesitant to move such a way away from London and all the way to Southern Wales but the eagerness in his sister's voice about him coming to stay and the happiness it brought to his heart seeing her as her enthusiastic self again, soon changed his mind. Yes, Cardiff was a whole new environment but it would be a fresh start to leave behind the pain he had been wallowing in for the past 3 years. As John stirred his coffee and slowly added the milk, no sugar, he looked at his calendar closely. He would be catching the 9:17 train from Paddington Station to Cardiff Central Station tomorrow morning, having to take a tube ride from Baker Street to Paddington beforehand. From there, he would make his way by cab to Harry's new flat at Havelock Place that her and her new <em>serious <em>girlfriend had bought together. Harry's life was finally back on track and John's, hopefully, was going to be.

Coffee drunk, teeth brushed, daytime clothes on, John ventured out of his flat with several cardboard boxes, made flat, awkwardly tucked under his arm, whilst the other arm was occupied with his cane. Facing the memoirs of 221B again would be hard, but not as hard as saying goodbye to Mrs Hudson – who seemed to be terribly bothered about John's announcement.

"But John dear, you can't leave London?" she complained anxiously. "Why don't you come in and sit down with a cup of tea and we can talk about it..."

John smiled sympathetically. "Mrs Hudson, don't you remember me telling you a couple of weeks ago? I can't come in; I've just come to collect my stuff..."

Mrs Hudson's eyes lit up, "Oh! Oh yes, of course! Yes your stuff, right yes I'd offer to help you, you know, pack all of your things up but of course there's my..."

"Hip... It's fine, honestly." John interrupted, smiling whilst letting the flat cardboard boxes slip down his arm and into his hand, where he waved them amusingly at Mrs Hudson. Holding her hands together, she smiled and nodded then walked back into her flat where John could faintly hear her dialling a number into her landline.

John left her to it and steadily limped up the stairs and up into room 221B. He sighed, gazing round the room and thinking where to start first. He placed the cardboard boxes onto the table, which was still covered with files and papers from how Sherlock last left it, and opened each one up. John held his cane tight and walked up to the bookcase closer to the windows, closer to Sherlock's chair. He looked longingly at the couch, remembering fondly of how his old companion used to sit and pluck at his violin whilst thinking, or the times he would lounge about in it all day, unable to communicate with anyone, and only wearing a sheet - or sometimes, if John was lucky, some pyjamas. John looked back at the bookcase and pulled from it several volumes of books that he had bought with him to Baker Street when he had first moved in. The amounts of books John owned looked incomparable with the quantity that Sherlock had – his extensive library of knowledge, besides his brain. John limped back to the box and put his books into the first of the cardboard boxes.

Turning back round, John headed to the bedroom, where he gathered up bundles of his old garments and then placed them into his box. This pattern he continued with, finding things of his and putting them in the box, as he tried not to look at any mementos that would jog his memory of Sherlock again. John walked into the kitchen and went through the cupboards, trying to find his favourite mug but only stumbling across the fine china tea cups Sherlock owned, which then reminded him of how strong Sherlock liked his tea - almost black, two sugars... everywhere he looked Sherlock was there. He closed the cupboard doors hastily and limped over to his boxes which were almost full. John looked around the room, hurting, but couldn't think of anything else to take with him.

_Maybe a keepsake._

John found his gaze wrapping round the room and finishing up at the mantelpiece, where Sherlock's 'old friend' sat. He walked over to the fireplace and carefully picked up Sherlock's beloved skull and examined it, remembering the countless times he had hidden the packet of 'secret' cigarettes here from Sherlock. It was a miracle that he never found them. John squeezed his lips together in a sad smile and put it in one of his deep pockets.

He looked back up to see the pen knife still securing several papers to the wood of the mantelpiece. He looked round to see Sherlock's chemistry equipment still lingering and causing mayhem on the kitchen surfaces and as he gazed round the flat for the last time, picking up his boxes and his cane and preparing to leave, he saw a sharp glimpse of red wax peeking out of the masses of papers where his boxes had been sat on.

John stalled and stared at the papers, utterly confused. He slowly lowered the boxes down onto the floor and, leaving his cane, walked over to the desk where it was hidden. John brushed away the countless pieces of documents and, as plain as the nose on his face, there it was. The same old, brown tinted envelopes from the papers with that red, wax seal – Moriarty's red, wax seal. John's heart beat faster and faster as he picked up the envelope and turned it over. His eyes widened as he read the name on the front of the letter. His chin retreated to his neck in uncertainty.

_John_, it read.

John re-read the name over and over again, trying to clarify that it actually read what he saw. His lips pursed together tightly in anger. He just wouldn't open it, he couldn't.

"Some sick game they're playing, oh how hilarious." He whispered heatedly to himself, walking over to the kitchen and turning on the hob. John needed to forget everything, starting with the letters. "Well we'll see about that. I'm not going to play your stupid games." John placed the burning envelope on the counter and watched it as it seared into fine pieces of char. The flames burnt the letter quickly and effectively, dulling down when reaching the centre of the letter and disappearing as they reached the wax seal. John scolded at the seal and marched over to his belongings, picking them up and gradually hobbled downstairs, where he was greeted with an eager looking Mrs Hudson and, surprisingly, Lestrade who was as tanned as ever – unexpected for mid-November.

"Lestrade? What... What are you doing here?" John asked questioningly, placing the boxes down on the floor – the boxes which Mrs Hudson looked worriedly at.

"Oh, well it's nice to see you too!" Lestrade responded sarcastically, shaking John's hand but looking questionably at Mrs Hudson, who exchanged concerned looks. John looked from his former landlady to Lestrade in question too. "Anyway, umm I was just here to... wish you the best of luck in wherever you're off to..."

"Cardiff. I'm leaving tomorrow" John answered, swaying on his heels and still watching Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. His eyes widening at John's reply. Mrs Hudson let out a slight noise of distress and scurried into her flat, out of John's view. John looked at Lestrade in uncertainty.

"Cardiff... Wow that far? Right. Well yeah, best of luck mate and all the best. I'll see you around." Lestrade said, patting John respectably on the shoulder, shaking his hand once more and then followed Mrs Hudson into her flat.

John raised his eyebrows at the perplexity of the considerably short farewell and, with difficulty, picked up his belongings. He left Mrs Hudson and Lestrade talking in hushed, anxious voices and returned back to his flat. Once back at his accommodation, John checked his noisy mobile – it showed up with several missed calls and a text, all from Lestrade.

"_Why don't you stay a while longer John? You've still got stuff here in London to finish first, Mrs Hudson will miss you a lot you know" _it read. It almost sounded as if Lestrade _wanted_ John to stay.

John shook his head and put his phone back in his pocket to reply later and then placed the cardboard boxes in his bedroom, along with the others. He took out his cane from the top box and leant against it, resting his left leg which was causing John a great deal of pain. He limped into the living room and collapsed on the sofa, causing a great white mass to shoot out from his coat pocket. It sped out of its hiding place, rolled down and off the sofa and bounced onto the floor, dislocating a component from itself. The skull sat jawless and watched John with its haunting eyes. John stared right back at it.

Lestrade was right.

He still had things to do in London.

He had to say farewell to Sherlock Holmes.

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><p><em>I can't say anymore. My lips are sealed.<em>

_Thank you so much for reading and I hope you have enjoyed it! :)  
><em>**HRM**


	7. Chapter 7

_GAH! I'm not going to say too much you just need to reeeeeaaaaad. I hope you enjoy it!_

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><p>Taking the 20 minute cab ride from his flat to the cemetery were Sherlock was buried gave John a time to reflect on how he was going to say goodbye to his old friend. Before leaving, he threw on his favourite pullover – the white and black striped one that Sherlock seemed to take a particular interest in, especially when John was wearing it but this went completely unnoticed by John himself – and picked up the skull, along with its dislodged jaw. John sat in the back of the cab reconstructing and staring at the skull, thinking of Sherlock and only Sherlock, as he, gradually, managed to phrase his speech.<p>

Once arriving at the cemetery, John hid the skull back inside his pocket and stepped out. He slanted himself on his cane, looking round the bitterly cold burial ground to see whether any of the 'regulars' were there. The wind in the trees whispered round the gravestones, almost as if the ghosts were trying to communicate with the world of the living. As he walked through the cemetery, sure enough there they were, including the sorrowful, young couple stooping low at a small, new grave, surrounded by beautifully vibrant pinwheels which fluttered and spun in the wind, and small, soft teddy bears and other such items of comfort. The woman's eyes were full of tears and misery as she placed some flowers, daisies, and a hamper full of baby toys onto the grave. She wept quietly into her partner, who held her tight as he fought back tears.

There was also the old woman, who was riddled with arthritis. Every day she managed to brace the bitter winter winds and hobble down to visit her husband's grave, along with her daughter whom came every Wednesday. There was the single mother, who would come down every week with her 4 year old son named Ben, who she would constantly have to monitor as he had a tendency to run around the cemetery in boredom, giving her little time to grieve. John nodded his head in respect at all the mourners who gathered by their loved-one's graves as he passed them on his way to Sherlock. Many gave John a look of pity and compassion as he walked past, holding his head high.

As John reached Sherlock's plain, black gravestone - which John strongly felt didn't express the true significance that Sherlock played in so many people's lives – a lump arose in his throat. John took a minute to look at the gravestone, squeezing his lips together and clenching his fists. He took several sharp mouthfuls of air before breathing them back out slowly through his nose, this was just one way John was taught on how to calm himself down. His distress clearly showed in his brow, which was low and bowed into an impression of sadness. John looked round the cemetery once more; the couple and the single mother, along with her son, had left, leaving the old woman perched on a bench placed next to her husband's grave, contently talking to herself, or her husband. She was quite a way away from John, so he couldn't hear what she was saying, which seemed to be quite an awful lot. He looked back round to Sherlock's grave and held his shoulders back, breathing in once more, whilst trying to visualise his friend stood in front of him.

"Hi... Sherlock. I've just come to say that..." He breathed in and squeezed his lips together once more, harder this time. "That I'm leaving... I'm leaving London and there's no way you're going to change my mind because I've decided and I'm going."

John nodded, biting his jaw together tightly.

"I'm going to live with Harry in Cardiff; she's fully off the booze now and sorted her life out... finally... which is good."

He sniggered, depressingly, looking up at the sky and back down to the memorial.

"You'd probably have some sort of sarcastic punch line for that."

John smiled memorably, still staring vacantly but the smile soon faded away.

"So, yeah... I'm leaving London... and that means I won't be able to come here and... Won't be able to come here every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday like I do... did."

John tilted his head as breathed in, his breathe quivering.

"Maybe just every Wednesday...or every other Wednesday... I'm not sure anymore."

He raised his index finger and thumb of his right hand to his eyes and squeezed them together, wiping his fingers down his eyes as he moved his hand down his face. He stared at Sherlock's grave longingly, his eyes glistening with tears. As he lowered his hand back towards his side, his whole body tensed.

"I wish you weren't dead. I wish you'd just stop all this."

Silence.

A crow cried in the distance.

"Why did you have to leave me Sherlock?"

Silence, John sniffed deeply.

"I can't do this without you..." John's voice broke as his eyelids flittered quickly and his eyes looked up to the cloudy sky.

An even greater silence.

John closed his eyes, dipped his chin into his chest and raised his hand up to his face, covering his eyes.

"I just can't..." he muttered again.

"You won't have to." a deep, profound voice answered behind him.

John's reaction was slow and hesitant. His hand eventually fell down to his side as he lifted his head slowly. His eyes were wide and his mouth was parted in shock. He recognised that voice, he recognised it better than anyone. The icy wind died down and changed into a ghostly, silent breeze. The silence ran through John's body, turning every inch of him cold. John turned himself round to face where the voice had spoken.

It was Sherlock.

Alive.

Standing in front of him.

Breathing.

Not dead but so, very alive.

"Shh... sh-oh my god..." John muttered breathlessly, his knees failing him. Sherlock rushed over and offered his help, out-stretching his arms as if to catch John but the doctor had other thoughts. Sherlock was immediately thrown backwards with a skilful and frenzied punch.

"No! NO! You're DEAD, you're dead... I watched you... you're dead... and I watched you DIE!" John shouted outraged, first throwing his arms in the air and then started pacing about with his cane and pointing at Sherlock furiously.

"John, I..." The detective started; one hand on his wound, the other extended out towards John. His eyes looked in fright from the doctor to the surroundings.

John stopped dead and spun round to face Sherlock, his body trembling with anger and fear. "I watched you Sherlock, you fell and you died and I saw you... I saw you hit the floor and die." He snapped with his eyebrows raised and head tilted at an angle. He pointed his cane to the grave behind him, giving it a fleeting look then fixated his gaze upon Sherlock. "You. Are. In. That GRAVE!"

Sherlock's eyes looked at John in regret. He placed his gloved hands down by his sides as he straightened himself. John shook his head violently, frightfully laughing to himself.

"Nope... nope, I've got it. You're not even real that's it. I'm just talking to myself. That's it isn't it? Oh my god I must look like a bloody maniac! You're just my imagination, like the violin at the flat! That's all it is." John explained frantically to himself. He looked at Sherlock again in desperation. "Holy sh..." John's legs gave way again, but he managed to steady himself on the gravestone before Sherlock even thought of stumbling over. John squeezed his eyes shut. Sherlock's gaze remained intensely on John.

"...John, I'm..."

"You're not real, you're not REAL!" John shouted at him.

Sherlock screwed up his lips in anger and paced over to John. "Of course I'm real you idiot! Look at you! This is what happens when you care for people, you go even more stupid than you were when they were alive!" Sherlock spat as he stretched out his hands and grabbed John by the top part of his arms. "Look at me, John. I'm alive. I _am_ real."

John refused and tried to violently break free of Sherlock's grasp.

"NO YOU'RE NOT! You're dead!"

Sherlock grabbed John's chin firmly and gazed into his eyes in irritation.

"I am alive, John."

The two stood in silence staring at one another, each with eyes shimmering with tears – a sight which surprised John and wounded Sherlock's heart further. John watched as Sherlock's breath escaped out of his mouth and formed a ghostly cloud, disappearing as soon as it left his mouth. John shrugged off Sherlock's vice-like grip and walked a couple of paces away. There he stood and hung his head. Sherlock stood and watched him.

"No, Sherlock." John finally said, turning around to face his companion. "You can't be."

"I can explain..."

"No." The doctor said, shaking his head warily.

Sherlock looked at John in harsh confusion. "What do you mean 'no'? I'm alive! What more do you want?"

"I want you to prove it's you. Prove it to me. If it is _really_ you... then I could never make up something as clever as your 'analysis' of people..."

"Huh, that's true." Sherlock chuckled, briefly looking into the distance and then back at John – whose face was stern and tired. Realising the seriousness of the situation, Sherlock quickly retreated his confidence.

"Not good?" his intense voice questioned.

John's eyes glimmered with hope.

"Just prove it." He muttered frustratingly.

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><p><em>I think I've done this chapter justice. I think. I was just going to keep writing this and make it like HUGE because I just want to keep writing and writing but... I decided to keep you all hanging on tenterhooks.<br>I'd love to know what you all think! I've been torturing you for so long and FINALLY you get what you're actually reading this for. Don't expect the goodwill to last though, I have some more evilness up my sleeve which I don't think many will particularly like. Heheheeee.  
>Anyway, thanks ever so much for reading! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter in particular. I really hope I have done it all right anyway... :\! <em>

**HRM **x


	8. Chapter 8

_DAM this took some thinking to write this one out, lucky for me though I have a cold at the momento of writing this so that means not a lot of movement - giving me lots of time to think, and research with le Internet._

_Ignore me, I'm talking rubbish. Hope you enjoy!_

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><p>Sherlock put his slender hands into his pockets of his extensively long, navy blue coat and paced around John slowly. His observation of his partner took less than 5 seconds, in which he looked John up and down and side to side and even briefly inhaled the scent of John's respiration and hair – which John reacted with an exaggerated upwards eyebrow movement, before he stood in front of the doctor and rocked on the balls of his feet. He looked at John deeply in the eyes before smirking and starting to stroll around John again, withdrawing a hand to point out his facts he stated, almost as if the consulting detective was talking to himself.<p>

"I can see from your waistline and bagginess of your jumper that you haven't been eating well over the past 2 and a half years, you've lost 6 pounds in total, almost half a stone, and several inches from your waist line. You didn't have anything for breakfast this morning as you weren't hungry and I can see this from the state of your ridiculously clean corners of your mouth and teeth – which you brushed for the first time in, say..." Sherlock sniffed John's breath again deeply, causing John to draw his head back and raise his eyebrows even further in surprise, "a good couple of weeks? That and along with your rough parting in your hair and unevenly lengthened stubble behind your jaw line, nearing the start of your ear, shows that your standard of making yourself look presentable has severely fallen, often a sign of hopelessness or grief, showing that you've missed me."

Sherlock stood still and looked at John in sorrow, then continued pacing around in a circle pointing things out as the doctor intently listened, frowning at points in Sherlock's speech in disagreement or annoyance.

"I can also see by the sharp, red veins in your eyes and the deep, dark circles which surround them and by the soles of your shoes that you haven't had a good night's sleep during my... absence, a good 3-4 hours each night at best, and that you constantly pace your floor when you're tired, this meaning that you have worn down your soles a great deal, but why don't you take your shoes off when you go to bed? That's because you don't have a bed to sleep in, maybe it's occupied or maybe it is non-existent, and you've been sleeping on the sofa, which can be proven by the shocking change in the straightness in your spine when you hold yourself. You sleep each night with a small blanket rather than a duvet or a quilt and that when you sleep you, more often than not, can't be bothered to take your shoes or clothes off, I can also see this by your polyester t-shirt collar, poking out the top of your jumper, from which I can see the t-shirt has worn for a good 3 days, including nights and this is backed up by the smell of your repulsively cheap deodorant, which has just seemed to vanish quite instantly."

John, offended, listened still. Sherlock continued to walk around him.

"I see that your psychosomatic limp has returned, along with the violent shaking of your left hand, showing that you've been unoccupied in work and bored whilst I've been gone, which is sad but all the more flattering for me since I made such an _exciting_ impression on your life. The vague stress lines I can see around your mouth and corners of your eyes show that you've constantly been pursing your lips and squeezing your eyes, another sign of distress and grief. I can also tell by the pills in your pocket and furrowed brow that you are in a constant state of depression since my lack of presence and that you've been to see your therapist... but soon changed to a psychiatrist as normal therapists can't prescribe antidepressants, drugs... meaning you must have had a run in with her or you had an episode which made you look mentally unstable."

Sherlock looked at him for answers, John gave away nothing. He continued circling the doctor.

"I know that since I've been gone you've visited the cemetery every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday and you'd stay and talk to my grave for about half an hour to 45 minutes at a time, most of it silence, and that you're planning to get the 9:17 train to Cardiff tomorrow to live with your sister, I can see this by the pre-paid, printed train tickets stuffed in your pocket. You're going to live with Harry as she has apparently sorted her life out; little do you know that her and her new girlfriend have had a little domestic yesterday that was _quite_ serious. I can see by the angle that your leaning on your cane, applying little pressure to your leg – probably meaning you've injured it further obviously caused by additional strain you've applied to it when you've been lifting your things - that you've packed your stuff up and clearly ready to leave London and that you'll only be able to return back to the cemetery every other Wednesday, but you and I both know that that won't be entirely possible, with you being occupied with a new medical purpose in Cardiff that Harry has found for you. I know this by listening John and that's not cheating, it's using your initiative."

Sherlock stood dead in front of John, raising his chin slightly to look down upon John. His expression pleaded for a reaction.

John's eyes were dancing with eagerness.

"Is that _real_ enough for you, John?" Sherlock said sarcastically.

"You bloody show off." John sighed. Sherlock grinned and chuckled deeply.

The two stood watching each other in the empty cemetery, seeing if the other would make an action to move or speak; Sherlock examining John more for his reactions rather than anything else and John to think of what he would ask next. Sherlock's stare would briefly avert John's gaze to dart around and look into the distance and the general surroundings but would soon return back to John expectantly. The wind was gentle and calm and the lilies, bluebells and trees, which stood gracefully on the outskirts of the burial ground, swayed softly in rhythm. The pinwheels which stood in rows by the smallest of graves fluttered playfully. As the moments went on, the two's stare would breaking even more persistently with Sherlock's eyes darting around the cemetery quicker, his eyes flittering about quickly as his marvellous mind thought, but his face gave nothing away. Every so often, Sherlock would watch something and slightly squint his eyes as if concentrating, then swiftly move onto the next object to watch.

John sighed again, shortly bowing his head and shaking it. "But why, Sherlock? Why all this time? Why now?" he mumbled, shrugging his shoulders.

A long silence arose, posing thousands of questions in John's head. The silence was broken by a slight rustling sound coming from the direction of one of the entrance gates to the cemetery, the one John had entered.

Sherlock's eyes widened quickly as he jerked his head round behind him to stare at the large shrub, which stood in the direct line of sight of John. John eyed the shrub too, with much confusion and looked back to Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" he questioned.

"John we have to go..." Sherlock said quickly and huskily, pulling out his phone from his pocket and walking past John towards a gate directly behind him. His elegant fingers tapped hastily across the keypad as he sent a text.

"What? Sherlock... wait... what? Why?" John said dubiously, turning round to watch Sherlock leave. A slender black car drove up to the pavement outside almost immediately as Sherlock put his phone away. Sherlock reached the car as soon as it stopped and opened the door. He turned to face John, offering him to get in.

"John, we have to leave. Now."

"No, Sherlock. I want you to tell me why you left. Why leave it all this time?"

"Look, we can't talk now..." the consulting detective started to explain.

"Well why not? We've been standing here talking fine for the half an hour..." Sherlock had always been envious of John's naivety.

"John, get in the car." Sherlock demanded with his hand on the door.

"Sherlock, just tell me..."

Suddenly, a figure clad in a black tight uniform jumped out from the shrub that Sherlock had stared at, pointing a handgun. Sherlock's face dropped as the revolved glistened in the freezing sun and John, seeing this, whipped his whole body round to view the individual.

"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled.

A gunshot fired.

Instantly, John's right side of his body went numb and cold. Sherlock slammed the door of the car shut and ran towards John. As the backseat passenger door shut, the driver's door instantly opened, revealing Lestrade who swiftly glided out of the car, pointing and firing his own SIG Sauer P229 pistol at the unknown figure.

John went cold and his vision blurred. He looked at his shoulder. The bullet had narrowly skimmed his flesh, but although the bullet did not go straight through him, it took out a huge chunk of tissue, leaving his bright, red, living flesh bare and bleeding fiercely into his jumper and coat.

Sherlock's mouth was moving in the word's of 'John... John' repeatedly... but nothing was heard. Even the trees seemed to be silent and stand deadly still.

John's vision faded to black as he fell heavy into Sherlock's arms.

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><p><em>GAH JAWN! Cor Lestrade is a BAMF. But why is he there? Hmmmmm, questionable!<br>__Hehehehee.. thank you very much for reading and i hope you've enjoyed it! :)_

**HRM x**_  
><em>


	9. Chapter 9

_Next chapter. Took a bit of planning this one, here's where it all starts getting too much for my brain to handle on it's own. Hope you enjoy it!_

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><p>As John recovered consciousness, a familiar surge of sharp, intense pain shot through his right shoulder, causing him to groan and whimper. John was, bizarrely, laid on the floor of 221B with his jumper now scrunched up into a ball and under his head as a pillow. Hearing John's hurt, Sherlock, who was close by and pacing the front room in intense though – hands formed in prayer with his fingertips placed delicately on his mouth - rushed to his friend's side and kneeled beside him. John scrunched his up face in agony and opened his eyes slowly.<p>

"John? John, are you alright?" Sherlock said quickly and huskily, almost as if he cared. John confusedly peered at him through squinting eyelids, raising his eyebrows when the consulting detective asked about his health. He was surprised with Sherlock's concern.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine..." John shrugged modestly, attempting to sit up by balancing himself on his elbows. Failing, the doctor fell backwards, groaned again and clenched his fists together. Sherlock, majorly concerned, placed a comforting hand on the lower part of John's arm. John looked into Sherlock's worried, anxious eyes. He had never seen the detective like this before. The stare broke when John suddenly realised his whereabouts.

"Wait... what am I doing on the floor?" John asked, looking about in confusion.

"Well I needed to watch you whilst I thought - and since my room is far too small and your room doesn't even contain a bed anymore, I thought the floor would be perfect and would do wonders for the forthcoming lower back pain of yours." Sherlock explained, waving his hands about as he talked and springing up from John's side to resume his position of thought and to continue pacing the room.

"Oh well how very kind of you." John reacted sarcastically, rolling his eyes. He looked about the room again and watched Sherlock think. Another thought popped into his head.

"And how did I even get here?"

"Oh come on, John. You're a doctor. You know how paramedics work."

"But they must've seen you?" John stated.

"Oh they had to in the end, I just acted like how a normal passerby would react to seeing someone get shot and pass out. The art of disguise John is learning how to hide in plain sight. Lestrade kept up the act of course." Sherlock replied, still pacing, deep in thought.

John nodded. But then comprehended what Sherlock said.

"... Wait Lestrade knew?" John said quickly, attempting to sit up again to view Sherlock properly. Again, the pain proved to be all too much and restrained John from moving any further, causing him to almost yelp out in pain. Sherlock flipped his head round to see John's struggle and swiftly crouched next to poor John.

"Why is it always the shoulder...?" John muttered bitterly straining the muscles in his neck and clenching his fists even tighter.

John gritted his teeth together and turned his head away from Sherlock in order to prevent his friend from seeing any tears that trickled from his eyes in pain. Sherlock's eyes flickered over John's actions swiftly as he slowly pulled the collar of the doctor's t-shirt down, revealing his shoulder and to expose the wound which was bandaged securely. The contact of Sherlock's slender, delicate fingers on the good doctor's skin surged an electric impulse through John's body, causing the muscles in his neck and arms to tense further, only causing the pain to grow stronger. Sherlock observed John's responses attentively, intensely staring at John's neck. John turned his head back round to look at Sherlock, who met his gaze.

There, John laid and Sherlock knelt, staring into one another's eyes once more. John thought he almost saw the look of concern and distress one would give for a loved one, that sort of raw human emotion Sherlock was unable to possess. The heartfelt stare was abruptly stopped by the sound of footsteps approaching up the stairs. Sherlock jumped up again and continued to pace up and down the room, this time closing his eyes as he paced, as if blocking out the surrounding world from his 'mind palace'. John, hearing the footsteps, widened his eyes and looked out the open door for the progressing figures.

"Sherlock? Sherlock! People are coming... aren't you going to... hide or something?" John whispered in an alarmed tone.

Sherlock sniggered, stopping at his chair and jumping onto it, squatting on it rather than sitting but still grasping the divine look of wisdom.

"Oh it's fine; it's only Mrs Hudson and Lestrade." He muttered forming his hands back in prayer and pressing his finger tips gently against his lips. His eyes narrowed as he stared vacantly directly in front of him.

John's mouth widened and his brow furrowed, a look of disappointment spread across his face.

"...They knew?"

Sherlock's sly eyes glimpsed at John briefly to observe his reactions but soon returned back to his thoughts. Sherlock smirked. There was a brief moment of silence before Lestrade and Mrs Hudson entered the room. Mrs Hudson, being particularly finicky with the distressed doctor, rushed over to John and cooed over him like a baby.

"You alright, mate?" Lestrade asked, nodding his head towards John and shoving his hands into his pockets whilst looking at John's peculiar position. John nodded in response. Lestrade switched his gaze from John to Sherlock, watching him until Sherlock noticed his presence.

"Well what the hell was that all about? I thought we got 'em all?" Lestrade asked, rocking on his heels slightly.

"I'm gonna go and make some tea!" Mrs Hudson announced. She had soon scurried out of the room and rushed downstairs to make the tea – since 221B's tea supplies had been non-existent for some time.

"We did." Sherlock replied, narrowing his eyes slightly and still vacantly staring into oblivion.

"Sorry... who?" John asked.

"... So what happened then? Who was he?" Lestrade pried, ignoring John.

Sherlock was silent. Thinking.

"Who?" John asked, tilting his head to try and be seen by either of the two.

The room fell silent. Lestrade stood and stared at Sherlock, desperate for answers.

"Stop it." Sherlock said quickly, looking at Lestrade in annoyance.

"What?"

"Thinking. It's annoying."

Lestrade looked round at John, who had now managed to sit up and was smirking, looking at the floor. The three sat, stood and squatted in silence for some time.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade questioned, "I need answers, mate. The guy got away, meaning he's posing as a threat to the public."

"Oh shut up, Lestrade. The gunman only wants _me_ and only _me_ dead. You and I both know that." Sherlock snapped as his thoughts was broken.

"But how would he know you're alive? Everyone thinks you're dead!" John questioned, and being ignored once more.

"Well if he came after you there, he'll come after you again. You're a dead man walking, Sherlock."

"I might be. But we know one thing..."

"What?"

"He didn't work for Moriarty." Sherlock announced, lifting his chin to rest on the tips of his fingers. Lestrade watched him, with confusion in his eyes. "Think about it, Lestrade. We got them all. All three of them..."

"Who?" John said desperately, again ignored.

"But there would be more of them..." Lestrade announced, sounding as if the detective inspector had out smarted the infamous consulting detective. Sherlock looked at him with that 'isn't it obvious' look.

"For God's sake WHO?" John shouted, slamming his fist down on the floor in rage. Lestrade and Sherlock both looked at him in shock. John glared at them both in irritation.

"Um... I'll leave you two boys to it." Lestrade said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand as he walked out the room and downstairs.

"Stop doing that look Sherlock and just tell me."

Sherlock's expression turned into surprise as he stood up on his chair and looked into the mirror. He returned back to looking at John like a child who had just had a scolding. He sunk back into his chair, bashfully.

"Who are you talking about?" John demanded.

"Moriarty's gunmen, John." Sherlock muttered.

John stared at him, tilting his head slightly. Confusion showed in his eyebrows.

"What do you mean you 'got all three of them'."

Sherlock sighed, wiping his hand over his face. "You wouldn't understand."

"No. Sherlock. I want you to tell me. You've been too bloody quiet about everything so far. You still haven't even told me why you 'died'."

Sherlock looked at him, with his eyes full of sorrow.

"It was either you, or me."

John drew his head back, tucking his chin into his chest. He was still confused.

"Moriarty threatened to kill you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. He had hired hit men, John. Three of them. They were posed to shoot you all dead if they didn't see _me_ die. That's where I've been all this time, tracking them down and... Getting rid of them."

Silence filled the room as John thought.

"... You didn't... you didn't kill them did you?"

"No of course not." Sherlock chuckled, resting his chin on his hand and his elbow on the arm of the chair. "They all had some sort of criminal past, making them all on the wanted list. The first was a serial murderer, original I know, so I just found him and persuaded him to hand himself in or else. That strategy I carried through them all. Now, you're thinking how does Sherlock Holmes intimidate heartless, blood thirsty criminals? Well, I have my ways."

"And it took you three years?" John asked.

"It took longer than I expected. Chased one round Europe; took almost a year, then handed him into the police. The third was pretty easy, still in London and took less than three months but the second was good, really, really good - even pushing on the boundaries of fun." Sherlock muttered, dwelling on his past, "I ended up getting into a spot of trouble myself in Columbia, nearly got married at one point just to find this brute. He took me almost two years before I found him. He took much more persuasion than others, but the government were very grateful of his capture. I can safely say he won't be living any time soon."

Sherlock smirked and chuckled to himself, then looked at John smugly. John wasn't amused.

"Well I'm glad you had such a brilliant 3 years, leaving the rest of us grieving and going out of our minds." John replied, ironically. Sherlock looked annoyed.

"I didn't ask you to care for me, John. I didn't ask for you to grieve for me. I wanted to tell you straight away, after I 'died'. I wanted to tell you my plan – in fact, I _did_ tell you my plan! But you didn't read it did you?" Sherlock responded, very bitter.

John glared at him, angry and confused. "Read what?"

"The letter, John. The letter."

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><p><em>john and sherlock fluff nyeeeee!<em>_  
><em>soooooo! it's all starting to come out now isn't it? still, got a few tricks up my sleeve! Thank you so much for reading and i hope you've enjoyed it!<em>_ :)  
><strong>HRM x<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

_OH THANK GOD - my fanfiction is back up and running! Sorry I've left you all so long, for some reason my internet kept crashing when I went to sign into here. Oh well, I'm back now yaaaay.  
>Hope you enjoy!<em>

* * *

><p>Immediately, the image of the brown envelope and red seal flashed into John's head. The penny dropped. Harsh, confused, livid silence ghosted through the room as John sat and stared at Sherlock in fury. Sherlock held the gaze with equally the same amount of anger. John's face was stern, full of disappointment and rage. Finally, after the long and deadly silent period of time, John spoke.<p>

"You... sent those letters?"

Sherlock gave John 'the look' once more, trying to restrain himself from making a sarcastic comeback, knowing it would just infuriate John more.

"But the seal, it was Moriarty's seal!"

"Oh come on, John. Forging a _wax seal_ isn't exactly rocket science. It's not even like I was trying to fool anybody with a significant amount of intellect anyway."

"WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST CALL ME? Like a _normal_ person would?" John shouted, desperate to stand and square up to Sherlock.

"And say what, hmm John?" Sherlock retaliated, standing up and throwing his arms in the air. "'Oh hi John, it's just me, Sherlock, just calling to tell you how I'm not actually dead! Why don't we pop out for a bite to eat, even though I'm not really hungry and we can discuss about how I'm not dead?'" Sherlock acted sarcastically, dancing around and pulling faces to add to the effect.

"You still could have called. Or texted me." John said through gritted teeth.

"John, you know as well as I do, that before Moriarty died, he probably had someone hired to install a sort of software into your phone so your calls and texts could be monitored. It doesn't take a genius to slip a mobile out of someone's pocket and replace it without them even knowing." Sherlock answered, pulling out John's phone from his shirt pocket and flipping it around in his hands. His eyebrow raised, Sherlock looked at John for a reaction. When no response came, Sherlock chucked the phone back to John, who shook his head from side to side as the anger slowly subsided.

"But why the letters, Sherlock? Why make it look like Moriarty has sent them? Moriarty's dead, no-one would believe it was actually him. No one would even recognise it was his seal."

"You did and that's why I did it... And is it actually confirmed that Moriarty is dead?"

John panicked; the thought of Moriarty being alive was too much to tolerate. "Lestrade told me."

"But other than that, there was no other mention of Moriarty's 'death' was there?" Sherlock implied, proposing questions to make John think.

John sat and thought. "3 years ago, in the papers, after your 'death' and the 'truth' about you being a fraud was exposed in the press – they said something about Moriarty going missing..."

Sherlock immediately snapped his fingers and grinned, clearly impressed with John's memory. "And _that's_ how I left it, for the public to think he was missing! I ordered Lestrade to tell you - and only you - that he was dead."

John looked unexplainably surprised, "What do you mean, that's how _you_ left it? How in hell did _you_ control the press?" John answered his own question, rolling his eyes and giving a sigh."Mycroft."

Sherlock chuckled, sitting back down again. "Of course, John. There are also some benefits in having a brother who practically owns the British Government. A little censoring of my name here and there after I died to keep up my security... keeping Moriarty's death on the hush-hush – it was all part of my plan. I had to let him know about me living at one point, I did after all have to possibly fly around the world – I couldn't have my name popping up in England let alone the rest of the world, so I got him to give me a new I.D, his I.D to be precise – and his _credit card_." Sherlock pulled out his wallet from his coat pocket, playing with it in his hands before putting it away smugly.

John raised his eyebrows briefly, "Yep, well he owed you."

"He certainly did. And now my darling brother will have a nice, hefty sum of debt to work himself out of, which won't be a struggle I'm presuming considering the ridiculous amount of money he '_earns'_ each month." Sherlock muttered, almost as if he was talking to himself. He looked around the room intently, picking up his violin and his bow. He placed his beloved instrument into his neck and closed his eyes, nestling it lovingly. Oh how he missed his violin. He flicked the bow back and forth in the air, listening to the delightful swishing noise it made. John watched him, fascinated as always.

"I still don't understand... the murders; the letters came with murdered victims..." John said, picking at the dressings of his wound like a child. The 'paramedic' that bandaged John up was clearly much more experienced than Sherlock referenced.

"Oh that was just for the publicity of it all really, to get _you_ to notice." Sherlock replied, still watching and listening to his bow as he flicked his delicate wrist back and forth. "You were reacting like any boring, normal person would when they grieved; shut them self off from the rest of the world. So I had to add a bit of drama, which I do admit I did enjoy, so that it would get noticed in the press – that and with the help of Lestrade and Mycroft of course – then you were bound to realise sooner or later, Mrs Hudson does love to gossip."

John looked at him, mouth partially open, "But they were dead."

Sherlock instantly stopped swishing his bow, brought down his violin from his neck and tossed his head backwards, staring up to the ceiling.

"When will people start believing that I'm a sociopath and _not_ a psychopath?" he yelled furiously to himself. "I haven't, wouldn't, won't kill anyone!"

Sherlock eyed John, who was still not convinced. Sherlock started swishing his bow around once more, watching it with full attention as he spoke.

"Molly Hooper was in on it too. She's been good to me, helped me out with a lot of things - and with the bodies. I knew Molly's phone wouldn't be bugged as she wasn't exactly known to be of any _use _to me. I just picked a spot, called her up and got her to bring a fresh body from the Morgue with her, preferably one that wouldn't be missed or recognised, dumped it there, put a letter with it and called Lestrade. It was then reported as a murder and I remained anonymous. Lestrade then took the body to Bart's and Molly did the autopsy, but not revealing any details of the person to the press. Of course, the first body was trickier because Lestrade hadn't had his letter."

Then it clicked, four murders – four letters, one for Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and himself.

"In each of the letters I explained the situation, how I survived, why I did what I did and what were to happen in the future. If they weren't to believe what they read, then I told them to meet me at the graveyard where I was 'buried'. Which is exactly why I saw you today, I thought you had read it, but clearly not." Sherlock continued; stopping his wrist movements and looking at John as his speech terminated.

John tried to hide his sheepish expression. "Well how was I to know that they were from you? I thought some git was messing with my head!"

"You could've just opened it." Sherlock sulked, putting his bow and violin down.

John shook his head at Sherlock, finding himself turning his lips into a faint smile. He thought about the conversation, thoughts and questions cropped up in his head.

"But hang on... you said that no details of the victims were given to the press – the fourth one had his name and everything... Lion... Lyons or something wasn't it? How did that work?"

Sherlock sighed at the sound of another question and placed his hands together, resting his elbows on either one of the arms of the chair.

"Now that one was just pure luck, I was wondering down Shaftesbury Avenue on my way back to a B&B I was temporarily staying at, the landlady was lovely but not a patch on Mrs Hudson, and I passed a nightclub and that chap, Lyons Kingsley was kicked out on the streets just as I was passing. He was completely out of it; I've never seen someone so drunk. I saw he was carrying a bottle of whisky in one hand and a bottle of Everclear in the other, nasty stuff. Out of curiosity, I followed him for a while, up until he went into a tall, 6 story car park. He was still drinking then, but then he just stopped drinking, dropped the bottle, started choking and collapsed against a car. And just like that, he died. I rushed in to help him, but there was nothing I could do."

Sherlock sighed, obviously affected by the tragedy of it all.

"I called Lestrade, informing him that there had been an _actual_ death, but I decided to use the event to my advantage and tell Mycroft to publish it as a murder. Of course, I got Lestrade to inform his family about the whole ordeal and to tell them that it wasn't actually murder. They've been paid a good sum to keep quiet and to compensate his death."

John frowned in surprise, Sherlock had actually considered the families feelings – so Sherlock did have_ some_ sentiment at least. The pain in John's shoulder pulsed through his body once more, causing the doctor to surge forward and grip his wound.

"Oh the stupid bastards, they didn't do it properly..." he moaned through gritted teeth. Sherlock chuckled; the worst patients were always the doctors.

"So... do you understand now, John?" Sherlock questioned, turning his head to watch the doctor.

"Sort of... I guess... but I still don't understand..."

Suddenly, there came a sharp little knock followed by Mrs Hudson's recognisable admission noise. "Hello John and Sherlock dear... something came for you in the post Sherlock..." she nattered, pulling out an envelope from her bizarre dog-covered apron pocket she was now wearing. "This was just outside the flat and it's addressed to you and I looked at it and wondered why you would send yourself letters dear...?" she giggled nervously, handing Sherlock the envelope.

It was brown coloured, with Moriarty's red seal on it. Sherlock's mouth dropped in shock, a sight John on any other occasion would've paid good money to see.

Sherlock looked at the seal, felt it with his fingers and sniffed the wax. He turned the letter to the reverse side.

'_Sherlock Holmes'_ it read.

It was indeed, the true seal of Moriarty.

* * *

><p><em>and just as you thought you started understand it all, i throw this curveball.<br>WHAT'S GOING ON, YOU ASK? well I'm not telling. Hahahaaaa. Thank you so much for reading my fanfic and I hope you've enjoyed this chapter :)!  
><em>**HRM x**


	11. Chapter 11

_two chapters in one day? cor bet you're feeling lucky today. anyway, here's the next instalment. the plot thickens! hope you enjoy!_

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><p>Mrs Hudson stood looking almost as confused and worried as John, who was still left hopelessly sat on the floor, despite the inviting unoccupied sofa that stood just beside him. Sherlock rushed to the lamp and analysed the envelope, holding it at different angles as his mind set to work in a desperate hurry.<p>

"Sherlock? What's going on...?" John asked, panic-stricken.

Mrs Hudson shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, rushing downstairs when it all became too unbearable, however she soon returned with Lestrade.

"Mrs Hudson's just told me," he announced, marching into the room to watch Sherlock over his shoulder. "Is that actually Moriarty sending that letter?"

"No of course it's not Moriarty you idiot!" Sherlock spat, waving his hand at Lestrade like he was swatting an annoying fly. His eyes were still fixated on the letter. "The seal is definitely Moriarty's though, we know that much; can't you tell?"

Sherlock spun round, staring at Mrs Hudson, then Lestrade and finally John.

"My god... you're all so vacant." Sherlock muttered, quickly grabbing a magnifying glass that lay on his desk. He held it closely to the wax seal, showing Lestrade. Mrs Hudson peered through the gap of the two men's shoulders, leaving John tossing his head backwards and throwing his unwounded arm in the air in frustration.

"The bird on the seal... the original, this one, has a magpie. I purposely used an eagle but made it look similar to the magpie, so that _I _could tell the difference between my fake one and the real one. Also, I used _taper_ candles to make the wax for the seal and this is made from real beeswax, only a few wax stamps now-a-days are made from beeswax. Smell it." Sherlock said quickly, thrusting the envelope into Lestrade's face, directly under his nose.

Lestrade looked at the envelope in surprise, drawing his head back in reaction, but reluctantly sniffed the wax, unable to detect any useful knowledge. Sherlock was staring at him with high expectations. Lestrade just looked at him, shrugging his shoulders.

"So since we know the seal is genuine, we need to know who sent it. A woman no doubt, going by the handwriting." Sherlock explained, holding the envelope back underneath the light of the lamp. He continued to tilt it at several different angles as he moved his face closer to it.

"Black biro, written in a hurry, but with a purpose – judging by the pressure she exerted on the envelope when writing it. Clean hands, most likely wearing gloves. No stamp, meaning it's been hand-delivered."

Sherlock raised his head, eyes wide, to look out the window and his eyes danced from side slightly as he thought. He handed Lestrade the letter as he slowly walked over to the window, hiding himself slightly behind the curtain. Lestrade's expression was overcome with confusion as he glanced from the letter to Sherlock repeatedly. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the security camera which sat on top of the empty house opposite 221B Baker Street.

Security Cameras - the eyes of the British Government that sat, unnoticed, and saw all.

"We may just have a quicker way of finding our mystery postman." Sherlock smirked, drawing his mobile phone from his pocket and hastily punching in a text. Sending it within seconds, Sherlock spun round to face his audience once more.

"John," Sherlock grinned, sarcastically. "I think it's time we visited my dearest brother again."

Sherlock boldly strode out the door, turning his collar up with a flick of his wrists and then wrapped his long, warm coat around his body – holding it in place by hugging his body tightly with his arms crossed.

John raised his eyebrows as he watched Sherlock's exit. He let his gaze fall down to the floor. He sat and waited.

Sherlock walked back into the room and stood in front of John.

"... Can you walk?" Sherlock questioned, looking at him.

"I've been shot, Sherlock. I don't think I'll be doing any walking any time soon."

Sherlock looked disappointed.

"Well, looks like I'm heading off out on my own then, Lestrade will be no use to me."

"Oi!" Lestrade reacted, offended.

Sherlock stared at John.

John stared at Sherlock.

"Well, after I've visited Mycroft, I'll be going to hunt this fellow down. My gun may come in handy." Sherlock said, walking to his desk and slowly pulling his gun out of his top drawer. "...Won't be back till late I presume." Sherlock glimpsed at John who was watching him with strong irritation in his eyes. He walked over and stood in front of John again.

"...Bye then."

He gradually strolled back out of the room, purposely taking his time and waited at the top of the stairs. John closed his eyes and sighed.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, opening his eyes to find the consulting detective looming over him with a satisfied grin spread across his face. Sherlock had, many a times, reminded John of an over-grown infant. He had the intellect of a scientist, mind of a detective, but heart – no doubt – of a child.

"Help me up then." John muttered, offering his left arm to Sherlock. "But be careful, mind." Sherlock grabbed John's hand and used his other arm to tuck it under John's armpit to give him extra support as he lifted the doctor up onto his feet. John let out short gasps and moans of pain but was soon on his feet and standing again.

"So... where are we going?" John asked, putting his coat on steadily which was placed on the sofa.

"Mycroft's; to discover who sent that letter." Sherlock answered, taking off his scarf only to put it back on and wrap it tighter round his neck.

"Okay... but what about the guy who shot me? What are we going to do about him?"

"Oh... we'll burn that bridge when we come to it." Sherlock answered, walking around trying to find the envelope, soon finding it on his desk where Lestrade had left it.

"I swear it was _cross_ the bridge..."

"Well I prefer burn."

"Of course you do."

Lestrade walked out of the kitchen where he had been for some time and handed John a glass of water and two paracetamol tablets, winking at him. John took the tablets, drunk the water and then handed the glass back to Lestrade, who then handed John his cane. Sherlock skipped out the door and down the stairs, followed – slowly but surely – by his old companion, who was wincing in pain with every step he took.

"Oh, isn't it great to be finally doing something _interesting_ again, John!" Sherlock cried, kissing Mrs Hudson goodbye as he strode up to the door. "It's been a good two weeks since I was last occupied on a case, well closest thing to one anyway."

Sherlock turned round to watch John, limping towards the consulting detective in a painfully slow pace. Sherlock's eyes filled with concern. "John... Are you sure you don't want to..."

"Don't even try and talk me out of it now I'm down the stairs, Sherlock." John interrupted. "I'm coming with you, end off."

Sherlock observed John's expression, which was solemn and decided.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight." John said, leaning on his cane with his left hand. Sherlock noticed how the trembling of John's left hand and limp of his right leg had gone, possibly because the trauma was now replaced with something more painful in John's right shoulder – or more likely because he had returned.

A brief knock was heard from behind the door of 221B, which was swiftly answered by Mrs Hudson. She opened the door to reveal Anthea on her mobile, again. She looked up briefly as the door opened and smiled at Mrs Hudson then nodded at Sherlock and John, who glanced out the door to see a sleek, black car waiting for them – this time _not_ driven by Lestrade.

Along with the car, a tall, weighty man stood and waited, with his hands behind his back. He opened the door to the passenger seats as Anthea turned around to walk back to the car, insinuating for the two to follow her. The bodyguard tipped his hat to Sherlock, who swiftly made his exit from Baker Street and entered into the car, and to John, who steadily followed.

Sherlock glanced at John, who couldn't help but grin.

"Just like old times." John muttered, chuckling. Sherlock, in return, sniggered with the rich, deep pitch of his voice overpowering John's little giggle.

"Just like old times." Sherlock repeated, as the car drove away.

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><p><em>Not much in this chapter really apart from a bit of John and Sherlock moments. which i love writing. a lot. still, it's got a few bits and bobs in it worth noting. Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it :)!<br>_**HRM x**


	12. Chapter 12

_You must be feeling really special right now, three chapters in one day. or you might be feeling really annoyed that i'm clogging your e-mail with updates._

_anyhow, here's were it starts getting INTERESTING. i had to do quite a bit of planning for this, you should see the plan i have - it's ridiculously complicated. hope you enjoy!_

* * *

><p>The pair sat in complete silence through the moderately long drive from Baker Street to Mycroft's beautifully located manor house in Moor Park. The ancient mansion stood hidden by dozens of willow trees, hundreds of fir trees and several lifeless blossom trees, which had shed their leaves for the winter. The grass was perfectly maintained, glistening in the afternoon sunshine. The car drove up to the strong, black automatic gate which opened as the driver confirmed his identity. The gravel driveway spiralled through a dense forest of fir trees which soon opened up into a clearing, exposing Mycroft's grand home. John was clearly impressed, raising his eyebrows and looking at Sherlock, who had stared out of the window the whole journey, clearly dwelling in his thoughts.<p>

As the car followed the path and departed from the shadiness of the dense forest which surrounded Mycroft's domain, John spotted a large, antique garden fountain which seemed to show clear signs of erosion from the rain. It was extremely impressive. The extensive circular base spread a good 15 foot across and was around 20 foot tall, the circular bases catching the water as it sprayed out from a beautifully carved stone woman's arm, holding an object which was unidentifiable by the excessive erosion the fountain had experienced. The whole residence and gardens were absolutely breathtaking.

The car pulled up to the magnificently large, strong mahogany front door which had a large bronze door knocker, shaped in the form of a lion's head which held a heavy bronze ring in its mouth. As the car stopped, Sherlock glided out from the car and stood at the door, ringing a hidden doorbell. John limped out of the car, still experiencing sharp bursts of pain from his wound. Once John had stepped a few feet from the car, it drove away to behind the house and out of sight.

As John approached the door, he spotted several CCTV cameras which watched the area, one of which was placed vigilantly at the top corner of the entrance. Sherlock looked up at it in impatience and smiled at it sarcastically. A sound of the door being unbolted was heard within the home and the door was slowly opened by an elderly, but incredibly strongly built, man.

"Parker," Sherlock addressed, strolling into the house and shoving his hands into his pockets. He stopped and turned around to watch and wait for John. "How nice to see you again."

The old man, known as Parker, nodded at Sherlock and closed the door after John ambled his way in.

"Dr. John Watson," Sherlock announced, nodding his head towards John. "He's been an incredibly good friend of mine for some time." John smiled at Parker, greeted him and shook his hand firmly. Footsteps were soon heard echoing down the long hallway the two had just entered. A familiar figure walked out of a room that lead off from the hallway and walked towards them.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock said with heavy mockery, "My brother who betrayed me. I've missed you _so_ much!" Mycroft swallowed an uncomfortable smile and looked at John, who clearly still hadn't forgiven him.

"John." Mycroft greeted, awkwardly, offering a handshake which was rejected. "I see my private doctor has tended to your injury well."

John nodded, partially to confirm his thoughts. Of course, the paramedics wouldn't have done all this - going to hospital would've been absolutely essential for a wound like this – Mycroft must've stepped in to save Sherlock being seen with him.

"Now... you know why I'm here. The video?" Sherlock asked.

"Ah, yes. I've just had it sent over. This way..." Mycroft answered, turning around and walking away, swinging his umbrella in circles.

"I know which way we're going." Sherlock replied indignantly.

John followed behind the two sour brothers. Mycroft lead the way into a large, majestic room, which he obviously used as his study. The dark walls were decorated with animal heads, fine pieces of art and many pieces of paper pinned to the wall. These pieces of paper spread down and onto many different surfaces, most of them collecting on his desk where a several large computer screens sat, the two at the sides angled in towards where the user would be sat. John recognised that it wasn't just Sherlock who had an eccentric personality; it obviously carried through in the family. The computer looked highly expensive and very modern, a clash with the old, traditional taste the rest of the study held. The desk chair was made of a dark, brown wood – _most likely mahogany_, thought John – and had leather padding on the seat and the, very high, back of the chair.

Mycroft sat and loaded up his computer, wiggling the mouse around to gain its attention. There he sat and inserted a disc into the computer's CD drive and waited. Several options uploaded onto the screen and Mycroft clicked on the second choice. Immediately, a media player started up and loaded the CCTV images of Baker Street for that morning.

Sherlock, who was pacing around the room whilst he waited, saw the media playing and walked over to the computer. Mycroft looked up at him,

"And what time did this person leave the letter? Mid-morning I presume."

"No later than lunchtime I wouldn't have thought. I only just revealed myself to John this morning, around ten I think it was... which reminds me, John," Sherlock spun round and chucked John his phone, which was caught with difficulty by the doctor. "You need to call your sister and tell her that you're not coming up to Cardiff now, you've got other things, more interesting things to occupy yourself with." Sherlock turned back round to watch the video, which was now quickly through 9 o'clock, then 10 o'clock. John sighed, shaking his head at the lack of sentiment his friend had. He walked out the room to call his sister.

"Oh, come on Mycroft, can't you make this go any faster?" Sherlock demanded impatiently.

"Sherlock, this is the fastest setting it has... just shut up and watch." Mycroft retaliated, folding his arms and leaning back into his chair.

The CCTV images soon reached 11 o'clock. Mycroft and Sherlock watched in keenness. 11:01... 11:07... 11:10...

"THERE!" Sherlock shouted, pointing at the screen, causing Mycroft to pause the video in hurry. 11:12. Sure enough, there was the mysterious postman - a hooded figure, dressed head to toe in black. Mycroft set the speed to its normal pace and the two watched the screen as the figure slowly stood back up again after placing the envelope outside 221B Baker Street. 11:14pm.

The hooded figure stood there, in amongst the numbers of people and stared at the camera for some time; it's face shadowed and unrecognizable. 11:27pm. Almost instantly, the crowds of people seemed to thin until there were only a few people passing the individual. 11:29pm. The figure then brought its hands up slowly and pulled back its hood, revealing the face of a young woman. The woman was a pale white in colour and had very thick, very dark brown hair which was scraped back into a tight pony tail. She lowered her hands back down to her side again and stood, staring into the camera. Sherlock watched her in high curiosity. Neither one of the brothers recognised her face. 11:31pm.

Then, the young woman waved her right arm up above her head and down to her side several times, palm facing outwards and the arm fully extended. After a couple of waves, she left it by her side. She then brought her opposite arm up and pointed into her eyes. Then, she brought her arm back down to her side. Slowly, she extended her right arm in front of her and brought it up so that the palm of her hand was visible to the camera. She then brought her right arm back down to her side, but then waved it round in a small circle, with her fist clenched. After two full circles, she put her hand back down by her side and raised her left up and signalled to follow her, waving her hand towards her. This signal Sherlock recognised.

Mycroft and Sherlock then watched the woman as she walked away and into the back passenger seat of a car.

"Pause it," Sherlock ordered, pointing at the car. Mycroft did so. "Take down the..."

"Number plate of that car?" Mycroft interrupted, grabbing a pen and scribbling down the digits. "Remember Sherly, you're talking to your older brother now, I'm just as quick as you." Mycroft looked up at Sherlock and grinned, as smug as ever. Sherlock despised Mycroft when he called him _Sherly._

"Don't ever call me that again." He snapped, turning away to look out the window which overlooked his vast garden.

Mycroft rose up out of his chair and put the digits of the car's number plate into his pocket. "I'll get right onto finding the location of the car in a moment. But what did the envelope have in it?" he questioned, straightening his jacket.

Sherlock raised his head slightly in thought and pulled out the letter from the inside pocket of his coat. He waved it around mockingly and gave it to Mycroft, who analysed it cautiously.

"It doesn't seem to contain anything... to be concerned of. But it does contain something..."

"Valuable. Of some sort, I know. I felt it as soon as I received it from Mrs Hudson. Bubble wrap on the inside, gives the whole game away."

Mycroft looked at his younger sibling with curiosity in his eyes. Sherlock took the envelope back from him and studied it again, then looked up to his brother.

"Haven't you a car to track down?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows as he looked at his brother. Mycroft's mouth opened partially as if to respond, but he bit it down and just smiled briefly.

Sherlock watched him as he turned around and slowly paced out of the room, getting the piece of paper out of his trouser pocket and his mobile out of his jacket pocket. Sherlock's eyes immediately looked at the envelope. He placed his delicate fingers around the wax seal and carefully ripped it from the letter, to reveal the inside of the letter, padded with bubble wrap. He tipped the contents out into the palm of his hand.

A memory stick.

Sherlock gave it some thought, standing and staring at the object. His gaze then made its way to the computer. His mind thought of the many things Mycroft would have to say if he found his beloved computer destroyed by a virus. A smirk spread across the consulting detectives face.

He walked slowly over to the computer and sat at the desk, where he inserted the silver memory stick into the USB port and waited. At first, nothing happened but then the monitor flashed black once, twice and then repeatedly until the monitor failed and completely turned black. At first, Sherlock assumed the monitor had switched off and the computer had shut down but as he went to check the power, a warning noise sounded his attention.

A pop-up box appeared on the screen.

"_Come and find me."_ It read.

Sherlock tilted his head and narrowed his eyes in confusion. Another warning noise; another pop-up.

"_Otherwise... your friend will die."_

Another pop-up materialized on screen.

"_Download 147 images?"_

Sherlock clicked accept reluctantly. Seconds later, 147 images had downloaded onto Mycroft's desktop. He slowly clicked the first one.

It was a photograph of John.

He clicked the next one.

Another photograph of John.

The consulting detective rapidly clicked through the next dozen of images - all of them where photos of John. A chill ran down Sherlock's spine, something which he had only experienced a handful of times.

Another warning noise.

"_Come. And. Find. Me."_

Sherlock leant back in his chair and watched the screen flash back onto the CCTV images him and Mycroft were watching.

_Silence._

"Sherlock?" John's worried voice asked, coming from the doorway.

Sherlock turned his head to look at his friend. His face whitened.

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><p><em>poor Sherlock. just come back from the dead and already someones posing to kill his friend. god i do do cruel things to them. thank you ever so much for reading and i hope you're enjoying it! :)<br>_**HRM x**


	13. Chapter 13

_So here's the next chapter, a bit of a filler really. But it's still quite useful. Mostly John and Sherlock moments again, hehehehe. Shorter chapter this one... ANYWAY, hope you enjoy it!_

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><p>"BUT THAT COULD MEAN ANYTHING!" Sherlock shouted, slamming his hands down onto his desk.<p>

Sherlock had sat there the whole afternoon and evening, once John and he had returned to Baker Street from Mycroft's, replaying the CCTV images he _borrowed_ from his brother on his laptop. John stared at Sherlock closely as his friend watched the same 30 minutes of footage over and over again, from 11:10pm to 11:40pm. This had been the fifty-something time and finally, Sherlock had gotten up out of his chair and started to pace around the living room, swishing his dressing gown around in annoyance. John watched him in fascination from his comfortable armchair. He was also on his laptop.

"What is it?" John asked; tutting slightly. "Never know; I might just be able to help."

Sherlock ignored him. He raised his hands to his face in the form of prayer again.

"Why hasn't Lestrade gotten back to me yet? How long does it take to track a car down? And Mycroft. They're taking too long." Sherlock snapped, flapping his hands around vigorously.

Sherlock had contacted Lestrade in hope that tracking down this vehicle would take less time than just depending on his brother. Maybe the car would be reported missing or stolen and then that way the police would find it quicker than Mycroft would. Sherlock threw his hands around and grumbled to himself.

John, fed up with all the noise, put his laptop down beside him, grabbed his cane and hobbled over to Sherlock's desk and sat himself down.

"Look John, I'm not being funny but if _I_ can't work it out than I highly doubt you will be able to." Sherlock explained, throwing himself on the sofa and curling himself into a ball as he thought. John raised his eyebrows at the sheer modesty of his friend and rewound the video to 11:00pm. He sat and watched in interest. _Finally, something Sherlock can't understand –_ he thought.

John watched as the video played the footage of the hooded black figure approaching the house, placing the envelope, facing the camera and then pulling back its hood to reveal a woman's face. John raised his eyebrows as he watched the woman stare at the camera and then commence her strange arm movements. John's eyes narrowed as he watched the female. Sherlock, who was clearly trying so hard to pretend not to be interested, couldn't resist taking a quick look at John. Seeing him in deep thought, Sherlock tossed himself off the sofa to stand and watch him. John looked at him, in a confused look. Sherlock gave up hope and jumped back onto the sofa again.

"... What? And you don't understand this?"John laughed after a moment of silence. Sherlock pricked his head up to look at John.

"What?"

"You actually don't understand what she's doing, do you?"

John was beside himself with joy – there was finally something Sherlock didn't understand and _he_ did. Little, humble doctor John Watson suddenly felt so much more superior to the great Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock bounced up off the sofa again to face his companion, his face alive with irritation.

"You don't get it, do you?" John chuckled to himself, his grin almost consuming his whole face. "This is brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!"

Sherlock was fuming.

"Yes all right, John. Just tell me what she's doing."

John continued to laugh to himself, staring at the blank detective's face.

"John." Sherlock said, sternly. John looked at him, grinned smugly again and rewound the video back to the start of the woman's performance. Sherlock walked over and lowered himself over John's sofa so that his face was practically inches away from the computer screen.

"There, she's signalling to get your attention." John explained as the two watched the woman wave her right arm up above her head and back down to her side. "Funnily enough it does actually mean_ attention._"

"Now there... where she's pointing into her eyes... that means _'Look at me'_ and then now... where she's showing you her palm? That means '_Are you ready_?'." John explained as he pointed at the screen at the young woman moving her arms. Sherlock looked repeatedly at the screen and then at John in a cantankerous and confused expression; he couldn't stand the thought of someone, especially John, knowing something he didn't.

"And now... where she's circling her arm in front of her – fist clenched – means '_Start your engines'_ ... oh, and surely you know that? Waving her hand towards her means..."

"_Come_. Yes, I think everybody knows that thank you, John. Anyway how do you know all that?" Sherlock questioned, drawing himself away to resume walking around the room to think.

"I _was_ in the army, Sherlock. Every soldier before being deployed in Afghanistan is taught the basic military hand and arm movements to communicate with when you're unable to speak." John answered, getting out of the chair to stand up and lean on his cane. He watched Sherlock as he paced the room again.

"So what do you think that means?" John asked.

"She wants us to follow her. She wants us to _find_ her."

"Why?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and exhaled a long, purposeful breath through the tips of his fingers. "I don't know." He answered finally.

Suddenly, there was a sound of a light vibration which came from the kitchen. Sherlock's head instantly turned to the direction of the sound. He glided into the kitchen and grabbed his phone - a text from Lestrade.

"_Found the car, near South Bank. Mycroft's sending a car over to pick you boys up. Thank me later."_

"It's Lestrade, says he's found the car." Sherlock announced. John nodded as he walked over to his coat and steadily put it on, trying to avoid using his right arm.

"No, John. I want you to stay here." Sherlock requested, walking into the living room and putting on his coat and scarf.

"What? No. I'm coming with you."

"John. You're still injured and this could be dangerous."

"I don't care. I'm coming with you." John said, straightening his jacket and looking at Sherlock with strong-minded eyes. Sherlock shook his head, fearing for his friend's well-being. The two looked at each other, one with concern and one with purpose.

"Boys!" a shrill, familiar voice called from downstairs. "There's a car for you outside!" As Sherlock peeked behind the curtains of the windows to see a shiny, black car waiting, John limped over to the drawer where the two kept their guns and drew them out. He threw Sherlock his, who received it and placed it in the side of his trousers. John then put his into the right-hand side pocket of his jacket.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were soon in the back seats of the car again and driving to an unknown destination, to seek the mysterious woman who delivered the letter early that morning and to find out why and how she knew about Sherlock still being alive.

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><p><em>I was so tempted to put John dancing around the living room going 'i know something you don't know... i know something you don't know... dooda.. dooda...' but no. getting close to the finale now! :O<br>Hope you've enjoyed this chapter and thank you so much for reading - let me know how you're finding it / what you want more of. :)!_

**HRM x**


	14. Chapter 14

_OoOOoOh! we're getting so close. can't say too much, which is lucky really because i'm running out of clever things to put at the beginning of the story. hope you enjoy!_

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><p>The sun had fully set by the time Sherlock and John arrived at the former-factory but now an unused derelict piece of land, where the car was found abandoned. The area was flat and empty and was covered in cold, hard concrete. The land was clearly mostly used for car parking or fly-tipping, which wasn't entirely legal. Filth resided in every nook and cranny of the vicinity, dwelling mostly in and around waste disposal units which seemed to be situated in the outskirts of the area. The streets and buildings surrounding the area were empty, dark and quiet.<p>

The sleek, black vehicle in which Sherlock and John arrived in soon came to a stop quite a way away from where the car had been left, with its doors wide open. Lestrade and Mycroft stood and leant against Lestrade's car as they watched some policemen and a tow-away truck, which were inspecting the vehicle and starting to hook the vehicle to the lorry.

Even before the car had fully come to a complete stop, Sherlock had opened the door and had swiftly glided out and was now walking quickly towards Lestrade and Mycroft. John waited till the car had halted, then opened his door and followed his companion, leaving behind his cane. Lestrade saw the two coming and spoke to Mycroft before he walked steadily towards them. Mycroft pouted in thought and slowly walked off, twirling his umbrella, towards the car which was to be towed away. There he stood and talked to the policemen, facing Sherlock all the while.

"Nothing?" Sherlock asked as he marched up to Lestrade. He thrust his hands into his deep pockets as he briefly analysed the disused property. His intensely icy blue eyes sparkled in the dull light of the street lamps.

Lestrade shrugged vaguely. "Nah, just the usual you'd find in a second-hand knock off: couple of CDs, the odd air freshener..."

Sherlock looked annoyed, ticking his head to the side in frustration.

"But there was something for _you_..." Lestrade said as he pulled an object from the inside pocket of his jacket.

It was another brown coloured, red sealed envelope.

John looked at it in suspicion. Lestrade sceptically handed Sherlock the envelope. The consulting detective inspected it thoroughly, tilting it at different angles out of habit. His eyes danced with curiosity as he ripped the seal off, opened the letter and tipped out its contents into his left hand.

_A memory stick._

Lestrade folded his arms and stared at the object Sherlock held in his palm. Sherlock picked up the memory stick with his other hand and twiddled it around in his fingers whilst his gaze remained fixated on the item. Lestrade opened his mouth as if to ask a question, but was promptly interrupted by,

"Do you have a laptop with you?" Sherlock asked, turning his head to look at Lestrade. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"What... here... in the middle of no-where?" John smirked, "Where are we going to find a laptop all the way out..."

"Back seat of the car." Lestrade answered, gesturing with his head to the direction of his car. John looked at Lestrade in astonishment with his mouth ajar.

"What?" Lestrade reacted in defence. "You'd be surprised how many times we need a computer on a case. Makes sense to take one with you."

By the time John looked back round, Sherlock had already dashed off to Lestrade's car and had found the laptop. He was now leaning on the bonnet of the car, waiting for the computer to load. John and Lestrade slowly walked over to join Sherlock, who plugged in the memory stick as they reached him.

"Hey, Sherlock... what happens if there's a virus on there?" Lestrade suddenly asked, pointing at the computer.

"There won't be." Sherlock answered, staring into the computer screen.

"How can you be so..."

"Because I've had one of these before."

"What... in the last letter?" John questioned, stepping closer towards the car and to look at Sherlock. Sherlock gave him 'the look' – as if everything was obvious.

"Well what was on it?" John pressed again.

"Nothing of concern right now." Sherlock responded, quickly. He pushed the screen of the laptop backwards and stood up, putting his hands into his pockets.

Once the laptop had finally loaded, a bright light penetrated the surrounding darkness. The computer's desktop flashed up, with a rather revealing picture of Lestrade's wife in a bikini as the background. The picture seemed to be taken at a beach, most likely on one of Lestrade's numerous holidays. John looked at Lestrade briefly with raised eyebrows but averted his eyes to look elsewhere, this he found rather difficult to do. Sherlock looked at Lestrade in disappointment.

"What?" Lestrade muttered, shuffling around on his feet, somewhat embarrassed.

"You do realise she's still sleeping with the P.E teacher, don't you?" Sherlock stated; Lestrade's lips pursed together into an aggravated pout.

"Sherlock." John snapped. Sherlock's head flicked round to look at his friend who was stood staring at him in dissatisfaction.

As Sherlock went to open his mouth to retaliate, the laptop screen went black... then bright again. The three looked attentively at the computer screen as it flashed again, this time much quicker and faster, from dark to light. The monitor then took on a spasm of flashing from black to white and then finally, the screen went completely black. There was a long pause. John looked at Sherlock in alarm. Sherlock remained staring at the computer screen; he knew what was coming. Lestrade on the other hand did not.

"Oh bloody brilliant! You've broken my computer, you sod!" Lestrade spat, throwing his hands in the air. "I can't believe it! That cost me..."

A warning noise silenced Lestrade's rant. He looked round at the laptop. Sure enough, as Sherlock presumed, a pop-up box appeared on the screen.

"_Come and find me."_

Lestrade and John looked at each other in concern. There was a deadly silence between the message and the roaring of a truck engine as it towed the abandoned vehicle away, followed by a police car. Two police officers stood with Mycroft in deep conversation.

Another warning noise sounded, followed by another pop-up box.

"_I want to know what happened to Moriarty."_

"_Otherwise I will kill you."_

John's eyes quickly fixated on Sherlock. His breathing suddenly picked up pace as his lips pursed together into a defensive pout.

"_AFTER I've killed your friend."_

Sherlock immediately looked round to John protectively. John's mouth dropped as he read the message on screen. His gaze slowly met Sherlock's and the two stared at one another in apprehension. The look was soon disrupted by another warning noise.

"_Come and find me." _It repeated.

The monitor flicked from black to light a couple of times again, but this time it remained dark. A final pop-up box materialised onto the screen.

"_Download 2 images?"_

Sherlock clicked accept. This time, he was hesitant at opening the files. Eventually, he clicked the first one. It was a photograph of what seemed to be a wooden sign. It was a painting of a magpie, sat on a branch with a glistening gold coin in its beak. Underneath the painting, it read "The Magpie Inn". Sherlock clicked the next image; Sherlock and John's eyes widened in unison.

It was a photograph of John and Sherlock at the cemetery that very morning. The photograph was blurry but John could just make out it was him, standing with his back to the camera. Sherlock's head and the odd parts of his body could just be seen in front of him.

The first couple of stars appeared over the city of London as the bitterly cold night breeze gently ghosted around them. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise and stand upright, though he wasn't sure whether it was from the cold or fear. Sherlock raised his chin slightly as he focused on the image of him and John at the burial ground. Lestrade shifted around uncomfortably; hands deep in his pockets.

"Who... Who exactly are we dealing with, Sherlock?" he asked at long last.

Sherlock inhaled a deep breath of air, then slowly breathed it back out again. "No one of a _real_ threat." He answered, walking a few steps from the laptop to pull his phone out from his pocket and start typing. Mycroft, noticing the movement of his younger sibling, said his farewells to the police officers and slowly started to walk back. John stood in front of the laptop and stared at the photograph of him and Sherlock. Changing it to the other image, his brain became instantly full of questions. John observed the photograph of The Magpie Inn sign.

"Where's that?" he asked, looking at Sherlock for answers. Sherlock swiftly put his phone back into his pocket and faced John.

"Oh I know exactly where that is." He said as he paced away and back towards the car. John unwillingly followed.

"Sherlock!" a voice called, causing Sherlock to stop and look round in fury. It was Mycroft.

"What?" the consulting detective spat. His older sibling approached Sherlock and John and stood in front of them, in order to block their path. Mycroft smiled briefly and sarcastically, waving his black umbrella around slightly.

"You're not going to do anything... reckless... are you now, Sherlock?" he asked as he leant on his umbrella.

"Reckless? Me? Ha, who gave you such an idea?" Sherlock smirked arrogantly. Mycroft's smile faded into a look of strong concern. The two brothers shared a long gaze, in which Mycroft's expression heightened in worry and Sherlock's heightened in mockery.

"Now don't look too concerned, Mycroft. People might think you _care_." Sherlock said, stepping closer to Mycroft as if to annoy his older brother further.

"Now... if you don't mind... I have an appointment with a young lady in a pub." Sherlock stated, raising one eyebrow at Mycroft, who finally stepped out of his way reluctantly. Sherlock took the opportunity to continue walking. John swiftly followed, trying not to laugh.

"Laters!" Sherlock called as he got into the car.

"The Magpie Inn, Siddons Lane." Sherlock announced at the driver, who looked at Mycroft questionably. Mycroft sighed and nodded.

Sherlock turned to face John. He glared at his friend with wild and excited eyes.

"Ready to meet your hit man?" Sherlock questioned, smirking. The car drove away.

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><p><em>OOOOOOO! so if you don't understand yet, either a) re-read it or b) wait till the next chapter. but if you DO understand it - good for you! you're clever! if you don't know what i'm going on about then join the club.<em>  
><em>hahaa, thank you ever so much for reading and i hope you're enjoying it! :)<em>

**HRM x**


	15. Chapter 15

**_WARNING THIS CHAPTER IS OREALLI LONG_**_ - shit goes DOWN in this chapter and that's why it's so incredibly long - 3,618 words to be precise. so i do apologise, there was just no way i could separate it into two because either one would be really long and one ridiculously short and/or it just wouldn't make sense. Or i'd just give you it all in one go._

_so i thought i'd be nice and give you it all in one go. i hope you enjoy it!_

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><p>The Magpie Inn stood old, abandoned and neglected on the dark, dull corner of Siddons Lane. No streetlight near the pub was alight and no life passed through the property or around it. The sign of the tavern blew gently in the crisp winter wind, giving out quiet creaks intermittently. Several windows of the pub had been bordered up with long, rotting pieces of wood; others had been left with nothing to cover their shattered glass remains. The pub used to be a largely popular retreat, boasting a full house every Friday and Saturday night, but since the blow of the recession, this poor little hostelry had to shut up shop. A new, sturdy white sign stood next to the property, informing passer-bys of a new block of flats that would be built on the residence once the inn had been demolished.<p>

Sherlock and John sat in the car and observed the building. John looked at his friend for any sort of reaction, but his expression was blank - though John could distinctly see the light in his keen eyes dancing with curiosity. Finally, Sherlock looked at John keenly.

"You ready?" he asked in his low, lavish voice which had a tinge of excitement in its tone.

"Ready as I'll ever be." John sighed as he tilted his head to the side and exited the car. Sherlock swiftly did the same. He walked round the car to join John who stood observing the shabby building. John raised his eyebrows in astonishment at the state of the property. Sherlock, briefly analysing the pub and its surroundings, marched up to the decrepit front door and placed his lean finger tips onto the glass window of the entrance, which remarkably hadn't been smashed, and slowly relaxed his palm till it sat delicately on the window pane.

The door let out a long, lasting groan as Sherlock transferred his weight into his hand and pushed the heavy door open. It hung precariously on its delicate hinges as it slowly swung open, revealing the darkness within. The creak echoed through the small tavern, causing several rats which had resided in the property, to unexpectedly scurry away and hide in alarm. Sherlock took a step into the pub, intently listening and observing everything. John stood outside, looked behind and around him and then slowly followed his companion into the building. As the two cautiously walked into the tavern, the floor boards let out great shrieks and moans as either one of John or Sherlock stepped on them.

The creaks and groans from the mistreated building ricocheted around the two and seemed to gradually get louder and louder the further they went into the darkness. Suddenly, Sherlock stopped as his eyes flittered around the empty room.

"John..." he whispered, putting a hand behind him as he turned his body slightly to face his friend. "I want you to stay close to me... just stay behind me, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." John replied in a hushed voice as he took a step closer to his friend and observed his new environment.

The inside of the tavern was fairly large, a good sized room in which stood a decently built bar, made of mahogany. Bar stools with only three legs stood, leant and rested almost everywhere; most of them gathering lifeless on the floor. Broken green bottles were left scattered all over the bar; some even contained small volumes of drink which had been left by a punter who clearly wasn't that thirsty. Thick shards of glass could be found almost everywhere thanks to the ruffians who came here shortly after the pub's closure and smashed hundreds of empty bottles for fun. These thousands of splinters of glass lay predominantly around the floor of the bar sparkling in the dull moonlight that poured in through the gaps of the bordered-up windows.

The walls were covered in all sorts of offensive and vulgar graffiti, sprayed on in vibrant shades of yellow, red and blue. The peeling deep green wallpaper which stood behind it blended in well with the darkness that consumed the tavern, almost making the shadows seem never ending. Small crates, one or two mattresses and melted candles sat drearily in the furthest corner of the oddly shaped hostelry, indicating that the pub was used as a hostel for the homeless soon after The Magpie Inn was forced to close.

Sherlock slowly walked into the middle of the tavern, standing in the biggest pool of moonlight that shone in from the small windows. The consulting detective found himself constantly turning around and staring wildly into the darkness, reacting quickly to the slight groans the building gave as the wind blew. He raised his right arm up to open his coat and used his other arm to get out the brown coloured envelopes from his pocket and wave them around.

"Got your letters..." Sherlock Holmes announced, all the while turning around to try and look for any movement within the shadows. John stood close behind him, with his back against the wall, mimicking his friend's movements.

"So you wanted us to come and find you... well here we are..."

A sudden, sharp creak in the shadows caused Sherlock to flick his head and body round to stare intently into the gloom. The glow from outside dimmed as a cloud passed in front of the moon. Sherlock placed the envelopes back into his pocket slowly.

_Silence._

"Sherlock..." John whispered, stepping forward away from the wall. "Sherlock, maybe no-one's here... maybe..."

"Oh _please_," Sherlock spat in frustration, staring into the shadows. "Don't keep us waiting. We can quite easily just waltz right back out of this hovel and..."

"Now I don't think you'd want to do that." A sharp, stern female voice replied, causing the two to jump round and stare at where the voice had come from.

A tall, slender woman, dressed all in tight black attire, walked into another pool of moonlight directly behind John and Sherlock. Her thin, blood-red lips were curved into a sly and sinister smile. Her long, thick brown hair was scraped back into a high pony tail, exposing her distinctly sharp jaw line and thin pale features. Despite the narrowness of her face and features, her dark eyes were wide and wild, glistening in the moonlight which lit up her face. Her thin arms were outstretched in front of her, her hands coming together and holding a gun, aiming it straight at Sherlock.

Sherlock raised his chin up in thought as he turned his body slightly away from the woman.

"Ah, at last." He muttered, staring intently at the female. "Ironic really, meeting in 'The Magpie', you've really thought this through haven't you?"

"I'll take that as a compliment." Her chillingly fierce voice replied sarcastically.

"Oh you really shouldn't."

The woman's thin smile disappeared and her expression turned fierce and angry. Her fingers twitched frantically around the trigger of the gun. John, backing up into the shadows, slipped his hand into his coat and gripped hold of his gun. The woman's eyes and revolver suddenly focused on John.

"Don't even think about it." She snapped, walking steadily forward and further into the light. Sherlock hastily rushed over and stood in front of John, still facing the woman. John quickly drew his hand back down to his side, leaving his gun in his pocket.

"John... throw your gun aside." Sherlock muttered with his eyes fixed on the woman.

"And yours too, thank you." She asked, staring back at Sherlock.

John reluctantly took his gun out from his pocket and threw it to the side of the room, watching it as it slid and hit the wall. Sherlock, who waited till John had discarded his, did the same. The woman moved the aim of the gun back onto Sherlock as her lips curved into a smile again.

"Now... that's better isn't it?" She said softly, putting her gun into the gun holster belt she wore around her waist. She then stood with her hands on her hips and glared at the Sherlock, whose face filled with rage.

"Who are you?" he asked bitterly, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Oh, now telling would be spoiling, Sherlock. What's wrong? Have I confused the great consulting detective?" she smiled, folding her arms. Her tone was heavy with sarcasm.

"Not in slightest. I just want to know a few things, one of which the question of why you want to kill me. After all, that's why you've got a gun on you isn't it?" Sherlock snapped. "I don't even know who you are."

"And I want to know what happened to Moriarty!" the woman shouted back, one hand placed on her gun. She closed her eyes and breathed in as she tried to compose herself.

"He's missing." He replied quickly, turning to look out of a window which was left without wooden boards across it. "Do you not read the..."

"Don't play stupid with me, I know he's dead. Now tell me what happened." She retaliated; staring at Sherlock was furious narrow eyes.

"Why should I tell _you_?" Sherlock asked, giving a slight laugh. The woman whipped the gun out of her holster and aimed in at Sherlock. John's eyes widened. Sherlock just smirked.

"Let's just say... your life depends on it." She retorted, ruthlessly, her hands shaking under pressure.

"I'm not going to tell you anything until you have given me your name."

The woman stared at him furiously, holding the gun steady.

"And your _real_ name, please." Sherlock stated sarcastically, raising his eyebrows.

"Alice. Alice Moorfield." Alice replied resentfully. "Now tell me what you did to him!"

"What?" Sherlock responded, brow furrowing in confusion.

"You killed him, I know you did! What did you do to him?" she cried, hands trembling. John hastily walked towards Sherlock and protectively stood next to him.

"I didn't kill him... he shot himself." Sherlock explained with his confused expression still remaining on his face.

Alice's face dropped, her slim lips parting slightly. "No... No he couldn't have... no... No he wouldn't do that to me..."

Sherlock's expression immediately changed into one of sudden realisation. "Oh no..." Sherlock sighed, tipping his head back and closing his eyes, slightly laughing. "Of course! Oh deary me..." He pulled his head back up to look at Alice and shook his head.

Alice's penetratingly dark eyes widened as she stared at Sherlock who was now pacing around in circles.

"Oh I'm such an idiot, why did I never see this before?" Sherlock muttered to himself. John stared at him in confusion, constantly looking at him to Alice and back.

"What?" John asked.

"This woman, standing right there, Alice... is none other than the hit man or should I say hit-_woman _who shot you at the graveyard this very morning." Sherlock announced, pointing a finger at the trembling female. "You probably already guessed from what I told you in the car, but Alice here has just confirmed my theory. I knew from the start that it couldn't have been one of Moriarty's men because Moriarty would only hire the best gunmen, the ones whose aiming were immaculate. Alice, here, clearly isn't the best shooter around showing from her trembling hands when under pressure and being able to miss me completely and only just skim your shoulder."

Sherlock started walking towards Alice, who had now lowered her gun in submission.

"So I thought to myself, the person down at the graveyard must be incredibly loyal to Moriarty to keep up his request to try and kill me, but not one of his gunmen. The person must also know Moriarty pretty well and must be quite close to him, due to the official wax seal we saw on the backs of the envelopes. Now Moriarty, as far as we know, didn't have any _friends_ but..."

Sherlock was now circling Alice slowly, walking around her with his hands in his pockets.

"...due to Alice's lovely little outburst just a moment ago we can safely say he had a little love affair, didn't he?"

Alice looked into Sherlock's cunning eyes as he stopped in front of her. The two stared at one another.

"I went to him for help... I was newly engaged and I had recently moved in with my fiancée, but I soon found he had an awfully fierce temperament when he had alcohol..." Alice explained, her voice breaking at parts. "He started hitting me and it became more frequent... the drinking and the violence and soon I decided I had had enough. I just wanted to get rid of him. I went to Moriarty for advice and I thought... We had something... And once my fiancée was gone, I wanted to say thank you to Moriarty."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows briefly and rolled his eyes as he continued to pace around Alice.

"I managed to track him down and break into his house, that's where he found me and he was impressed, like I thought he'd be. I thought he was interested..."

"So you had a little fling with the one and only consulting criminal..." Sherlock chuckled, walking round to face Alice once more.

"It wasn't just a fling!" she interrupted abruptly. "He would call me 'his distraction'..." she smiled at the floor reminiscently, "And he would send me clues to find him and I would send him clues to find me... all the time we'd 'distract' one another and I really thought he fancied me..."

"But he got bored, didn't he?" Sherlock interrupted as he analysed the meek female standing in front of him, her eyes welling up with tears.

"He just stopped texting me... it was all over in a split second..." she muttered, her bottom lip trembling.

"He got bored and went off to find something new... something different that he could distract himself with... and that was me."

Alice's sharp eyes instantly rose up from the floor to gaze at Sherlock in spite. Sherlock observed her reaction.

"You got jealous didn't you?" Sherlock asked mockingly, half flattered. "He found something better to distract himself with and you got jealous. You couldn't bare the fact he was giving his attention to someone else so you followed him everywhere and kept on at him, pleading him to take you back. You stayed loyal."

Sherlock laughed scornfully, taking a step closer to Alice.

"And that's why you want me dead; that's why you tried to shoot me at the cemetery; not just because of your loyalty, but because you were jealous."

Alice's lips pursed tightly into an angry pout and her eyes narrowed together sternly. Sherlock laughed again.

"Your naivety is pitiful." He scorned. "You really thought Moriarty was interested in _you_?"

"Sherlock..." John said quietly and uneasily. "Don't..."

Alice's eyes narrowed further and her expression turned into a look of disgust and pure hatred. The moonlight from outside brightened once more as the clouds passed over the moon. Sherlock could now clearly distinguish the anger Alice held for him.

"He was just using you to distract himself. He was bored. He was never really interested at all, do you not see? When something better came along, Moriarty took that offer."

"No!" she shouted at him, "We had something! And then you took it away!"

"You never _had_ something with him!"

"Sherlock!" John snapped. "Not now!"

Sherlock ignored the doctor and continued, circling the female once and standing closer to her.

"He was never interested in you." Sherlock repeated harshly, "He never loved you. And do you know why? Not just the fact that he ditched you as soon as a better offer came along..."

"Sherlock, don't!" John warned; his voice strung with worry.

"But he had another girlfriend. Molly."

"NO!" She screamed, flinging her arm which held the gun up to Sherlock's head. She steadied her hand with her other arm and held the gun there, aiming it at Sherlock. John, in result, dived to the edge of the room and grabbed his gun and aimed it at Alice. Seeing this, Alice shot the ground where John was standing, causing the doctor to recoil back quickly and panic.

"John!" Sherlock cried, whipping himself round to face his friend.

"DROP IT." She screamed; her hands trembling as she aimed at John. "If you don't drop that bloody gun I'll shoot him and _then_ you!"

"John, just drop the gun... please." Sherlock pleaded, outstretching an arm and reaching out towards John, who dropped the gun by his feet instantly. Sherlock turned back round to look at Alice. He started to back up slowly and raise his hands.

Tears streamed down Alice's face as they leaked from her wild and tired eyes. Her violent trembling in her hands had spread through into her arms. The gun wavered terrifyingly.

"It took me three years, _THREE YEARS_..." she cried, "to find out that Moriarty was dead... all the time I thought he might just come back to me if I found him again... and now I have nothing and it's your entire fault."

Alice squeezed her eyes shut.

"I thought he loved me... I thought he loved me..." she sobbed as she collapsed to the ground and hugged her arms around her. Sherlock and John watched her indecisively. Sherlock looked back at John who stood, unsure on what to do. John looked at Sherlock and shrugged his shoulders.

As Sherlock took an uncertain step towards the weeping woman, her right arm immediately extended and her head flicked up; her eyes wild with rage.

She pointed the gun with her wavering hand at Sherlock's torso.

The bullet fired.

"SHERLOCK!" John cried.

John merely had a split second to think between Sherlock spinning his body round to avoid the bullet and almost collapsing on the floor, and Alice then taking her own life by shooting herself in her temporal lobe.

Her body fell sideways, lifeless.

The sudden sound of two bullets echoed through the empty tavern and then through the streets.

"No, no, no, no..." John said, panic-stricken, as he ran over to Sherlock whose back was arched over and his hands were desperately clasping onto the right hand side of his waist. John placed his hands on the detective's shoulders to steady him.

Sherlock removed one of his hands from his side and stared at it. His palm was tarnished with blood. He looked up at John, who gazed into Sherlock's frightened eyes – the first time that John had ever seen Sherlock look so terrified.

Sherlock's breathing became heavier and harder as he collapsed into John's arms, causing a great amount of pain to occur in John's wounded shoulder. The doctor settled his friend down on the floor, trying to fight back the tears.

"Oh god... hang on, Sherlock. Stay with me, I need to call an ambulance." John spoke, voice breaking, as he hastily pulled his mobile from his pocket.

Sherlock forced a hand away from his side and placed it on top of John's phone, "Not... Not the ambulance..." he breathed steadily. "They can't know I'm alive... they can't..." The wound overpowered his speech and caused him to lurch forward into a ball and let out a strong groan in pain. John's expression turned from shock into grief, he couldn't stand seeing Sherlock like this.

"Oh god... oh Sherlock I'm going to have to, you're dying!" John's voice said, quavering.

"You're... you're a doctor..." Sherlock said breathlessly, trying to smirk but the throbbing proved to be too much. John laughed slightly as he punched in the numbers _999_ and held the phone to his ear, all the while tending to Sherlock, taking off his scarf and using it briefly as a cloth to mop up the blood.

"Hello? Yes I need an ambulance now!" John's trembling voice spoke. Sherlock lurched forward again, letting out another agonizing groan. "The Magpie Inn, Siddons Lane... my friend's been shot... I don't have time; just get an ambulance down here, please!"

John threw the mobile aside in anxiety and pulled off his jumper. He folded it over and placed it under Sherlock's head. Sherlock's gasps of pain and trembling breaths became faster and more irregular. He lurched forward again.

"Stop moving Sherlock, you're just making it worse!" John ordered, holding his friend back with one arm and applying pressure to the wound with the other arm. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and cried out in pain. John's frown spread out across his face as he stared at his companion in sympathy.

Sherlock rolled his head forward to stare into John's eyes. There were a few tears appearing in his eyes as he stared down at his wounded friend.

"John... John, I..."

_Silence_

"Yes? What is it, Sherlock?"

John could feel Sherlock instantly weaken in his arms. Sherlock's tense muscles gradually relaxed, almost as if he was slipping away. John bit his bottom lip and then squeezed his lips together, widening his shining eyes.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, stay with me, there's an ambulance on its way..."

Sherlock's eyelids flickered from shut to open as his head fell back into John's jumper. John slipped his hand underneath his head and held it up whilst he used his other hand to continue to apply pressure to the wound. Sherlock's face was paler than ever and his expression was blank. The peculiar light that danced around in Sherlock's eyes was fading away and John could see it.

"Sherlock! Please, Sherlock. You've already left me once; I won't let you go again... please..."

John's voice was desperate and distressed, constantly quavering. A tear slid out of the corner of his eye and bled down his cheek, falling onto Sherlock's face.

Sherlock finally closed his eyes.

"Sherlock?"

...

"Sherlock!"

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><p><em>NOOOOOO, i have so many feelings right now. i need to cry. omg. no. my poor john. SHERLOCK AAHH. SSSHHH.<em>

_right, so i apologise that this chapter was so long. i really do. i hate reading incredibly long chapters myself, but i think it compensates for all the shitty small ones i've done. i hope you've enjoyed this chapter, love to hear what you think as always, and thank you ever so much for reading! :) going away to cry now. what have i doooooone. _

**HRM x**_  
><em>


	16. Chapter 16

_hello my lovelys, so sorry about the long wait for this chapter - i have no excuse, i've just been preoccupied with other delicious sherlock stuff. and i've been really lazy. so i do apologise. hope you enjoy this lovely fluffy chapter!_

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><p>John gasped a sharp, sudden breathe of air as his eyelids flashed open, ending his diminutive slumber unexpectedly. The bushed doctor lay rigidly across several rather uncomfortable chairs of a hospital bench in the corridor of the Bart's Hospital's emergency ward. The corridor seemed endless from John's position as he slowly raised his head, then his body to sit upright, yet the hallway was only full of busy doctors and nurses who constantly darted in and out of different rooms, leaving the doors swinging freely behind them. John rested his elbows on his knees as he slumped forward and placed his head into his hands, wiping his lethargic eyes with his finger tips.<p>

He soon altered his posture and sat up straight, then leant his heavy head wearily against the hard wall behind him. John's blood shot eyes stared vaguely at the cream analogue clock which hung on the wall in front of him, just next to the doors of the room where Sherlock, and many others in need of immediate medical assistance, was being kept. He blinked heavily numerous times before actually taking in the information given to him, it was now nearing midnight. He had slept a good 5 ½ hours, but was still tremendously exhausted.

John closed his weighty eyelids once more and left his eyes shut for some time but he was again instantly disturbed by the recent events of why he was at Bart's, waiting once more, in the first place. The vivid flashbacks shocked John back into reality: the sound of the bullet echoing through the tavern, the sting of pain in his shoulder when Sherlock collapsed in his arms, the warm, sickly feeling of Sherlock's blood as it soaked through his friend's satin shirt, the shrill screaming of the sirens as the ambulance arrived shortly after Sherlock becoming unconscious and what affected John the most was the pragmatic feeling of panic and extreme anxiety which he felt when the paramedics wheeled Sherlock into the emergency ward and didn't allow John to go in with him.

It was then that John was left protesting and almost begging to be with Sherlock; announcing countless times that he was a doctor. They, of course, refused, forcing him to sit outside and wait once more upon his friend. However there was one kinder nurse, who came and sat with John for a while and suggested for him to phone family or friends. John then took to the decision to phone Lestrade and inform him on the tragedy and to also ask him to pass the news onto Mycroft, as John still had difficulty talking to Mycroft without being bitter.

The doctor placed his arms onto his legs and raised one hand to rub his forefinger and thumb against his eyes. There, when lowering his arm, John sat and sighed deeply, whilst staring distantly into oblivion.

Despite the 5 ½ hours sleep John had had, there were constant interruptions, the first being from Lestrade shaking him awake, asking him what happened. The second was to the loud sound of nearby doors swinging open and, thinking it was Sherlock, he awoke. From then on it was frequent sounds of disruption or his dreams becoming all too unbearably realistic which shook the doctor from his sleep.

John bowed his head and nestled his chin into his chest, placing his hands into his lap delicately. As he closed his eyes once more, John listened to the sounds of the hospital; the rapid footsteps of doctors and nurses rushing from place to place, the distant beeping of machines that came within the emergency rooms and the silence that settled within the corridor when all the doors were fully closed or still. His thoughts were then attracted to the sound of heavy, yet familiar, footsteps which were approaching him steadily. The footsteps then stopped a couple of feet from him.

Opening his eyes and raising his head, John was greeted by a plastic cup full of coffee, which was held at arm's length by Lestrade.

"You alright?" Lestrade asked as John took the coffee cup and muttered his thanks. John removed the plastic lid from the cup and blew into the hot drink before taking a sip and exhaling slightly. Lestrade shoved one hand into his trouser pocket and rocked awkwardly on the balls of his feet.

"We're not actually allowed to be here, you know - visiting hours over and all that." Lestrade said, taking several sips from his coffee. John looked up at Lestrade, raising his eyebrows to seem interested.

"But with Mycroft I guess bending the rules isn't a problem, he just had to make one quick phone call and suddenly everything's fine." He continued, looking around and watching a rather attractive female nurse walk by as he explained. "_We're_ not allowed to be in there, but of course Mycroft is."

"What? He's in there now?" John replied, looking up at Lestrade from his coffee. Lestrade nodded and took another sip from his hot beverage. Hurt, John unknowingly pouted his lips and furrowed his brow. Silence filled the corridor once more.

Suddenly, the doors in front of Lestrade and John swung open and out glided Mycroft. John looked to Mycroft, mouth slightly ajar, eager to hear any news on Sherlock.

"Ah! John! You're awake. Good." Mycroft said, smiling slightly sardonically. "You were out nearly as long as Sherlock has been."

"Is he okay?" John asked immediately, his tone tinged with desperation.

"Yes he'll be fine; he lost quite a bit of blood though, just over 2 pints of the stuff if I remember rightly." Mycroft answered, flicking his umbrella tip up in the air to observe it. "But he's had the blood transfusion and has had the bullet removed etc. etc. He's still under the general anaesthetic though, so we won't get anything from him _this_ evening... or should I say morning." Mycroft glanced up at the clock which showed a few minutes past midnight and, placing his umbrella down by his side again, looked at John who breathed a sigh of relief.

"I need to see him." John announced as he nodded to himself and then stood up, rolling back his shoulders and standing up straight.

"I don't think that's a good idea, John. You need your sleep, you look shattered, mate." Lestrade answered, stepping into the conversation.

"He won't be doing a great deal of talking either, mind you." Mycroft added, quirking his head to the side. "Why don't you just leave it until tomorrow? I'm sure by morning he'll be back to his arrogant, egotistical self." Mycroft smiled mockingly at John once more. John, restraining the urge to punch Mycroft, nodded reluctantly and agreed.

"Good. I'll call you a car." Mycroft declared whilst taking his phone from his pocket. John watched as he turned round and walked down the corridor, swinging his brolly with every step he took. Lestrade swiftly followed as did John, allowing Lestrade to walk several paces in front of him. Then, as Lestrade caught up with Mycroft, John turned round and marched back to the ER were Sherlock was, checking over his shoulder once or twice to assure the two had kept walking.

John opened the heavy wooden door and strained his neck round the corner to question the presence of any doctors. Seeing that the darkened room was left shortly unattended, John walked in, immediately spotting Sherlock who was in the furthest bed from the door. The other 3 beds surrounding him, two to John's left and the second next to Sherlock, were left unattended with folded white sheets and white pillows placed on top of the mattress.

John walked warily up to Sherlock's bedside which sat in a large square pool of moonlight that shone in through the window next to Sherlock. He was lying on his back with a white sheet covering his legs and pelvis but was wearing no shirt, exposing the heavy bandaging that wrapped around his waist and the wires that were strapped to Sherlock's chest and connected him to the machine which measured his heart rate, which read just 57bpm in his deep sleep.

As John stared at Sherlock, he noticed for the first time ever, Sherlock looked peaceful. His facial expression was blank but he did not look morbid or gloomy but tranquil and calm. His eyelids were delicately closed, with his eyelashes flittering gently with any movement his eyes made in his unconsciousness. His hair hung lifelessly in his face, the tight dark brown curls seeming almost like chocolate in the bright pallid moonlight, which also seemed to enlighten Sherlock's pale skin, and defined even stronger his prominent cheekbones and collarbones, which then casted their own shadows over Sherlock's face and body.

John sat in a chair beside Sherlock and let his eyes sorrowfully gaze over him. There, John sat in silence observing what had become of his close friend. John bowed his head slightly and looked down into his lap.

"I could have done something." John muttered quietly.

_Sherlock's heart rate rose to 59bpm._

"I could have helped you."

John, feeling riddled with guilt, raised his head to look back at Sherlock.

"I know how to handle this sort of injury... and I could have helped you." John said, pouting his lips in frustration. "It's just... I didn't have anything, I... I didn't have anything to tend to your wound. But it just pisses me off how I knew what to do, but I couldn't. I couldn't even stop you from passing out."

_60bpm._

John squeezed his lips together after he breathed in heavily.

"You know, I've seen people get shot and get injuries like yours and... they died. I watched them get shot and then they died. I'd say you were bloody lucky that she didn't shoot you in the stomach otherwise..." John bowed his head slightly again, unable to finish his sentence.

"Otherwise... you'd be dead. Definitely." John finished, breathing out again.

_Silence._

_64bpm._

"You know, when you died... well... left, my therapist told me to tell her all of the things... I didn't get to tell you." John said with difficulty, lifting his head as his eyes drifted up to look at the ceiling. "I couldn't. I wouldn't... because I wanted to tell _you_."

John looked at Sherlock's soft, elegant face.

_69bpm._

_70bpm._

_72bpm._

"Sherlock..."

_74bpm._

"Sherlock... I..."

"...John?" a low, sensuous voice whispered. A light of happiness and hope sparked in John's eyes as he looked at Sherlock's face.

_77bpm._

"John?" Sherlock whispered hazily again. Sherlock's eyelids gradually flittered to a half open, where he moved his head forward slightly to look at John with his vibrant blue eyes.

"Sherlock!" John whispered with relief. "Sherlock, I..."

"Visiting hours are over, John." A stern voice proclaimed from the doorway. Sherlock dropped his head back into his pillow. John flicked his head up to see Mycroft's silhouette standing in the door frame, holding the heavy door open with one hand whilst leaning on his brolly with the other.

John looked back at Sherlock who was still watching him, but this time with a crooked grin on his face. John smiled back and then nodded a goodbye to Sherlock before slowly rising out of the chair to follow Mycroft to the car and return back to Baker Street.

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><p><em>i love writing fluff. i really do. they're so fluffy and they're meant to be together forever and always in a bubble of love and rainbows. 333333<br>getting close to the end which is sad, as i've really enjoyed writing this story. i might do another one... NO PROMISES. thank you ever so much for reading my story and i hope you've enjoyed this chapter! :)_

**HRM x**


	17. Final Chapter

_i can't introduce this chapter. i just can't. otherwise i'm gonna cry of combined sadness & happiness. hope you enjoy!_

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><p><em>Beep.<em>

John hung up the call on his mobile phone and stood in bewilderment, letting his arm flop down from his ear to his side in despair.

John Watson stood, for the last time, in his previous shabby accommodation surrounded by the boxes of his belongings that were soon to be collected by the removal men and to be moved back into 221B Baker Street, after 3 long years of residing in John's bachelor pad. Trying to collect his thoughts, John stared vacantly into nothingness. His phone had rung again in his hand, including a vibration with the ringtone, but he couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything. In the split second between John finishing an urgent call from Lestrade and hurrying out of the door, leaving it swinging freely on its hinges, he felt complete and utter panic.

_Ring ring... ring ring..._

"_Lestrade? Hey, you don't normally call..."_

"_John! It's Sherlock!" Lestrade announced hurriedly, a twang of worry sounded in his tone. _

_Suddenly John felt as if his heart leapt straight into his throat, thudding hard in uncertainty._

"_What, what about him... Is he alright?"_

"_He's gone, John! He's just got up and left! He's disappeared!"_

_John's mouth fell ajar and his eyes widened. _

"_What?" he answered, shuffling around on his feet in discomfort, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. _

"_He discharged himself really early this morning; your phone was off all night so we couldn't get hold of you..." That would explain the 17 missed calls; 14 from Mycroft and 3 from Lestrade, including the 11 texts he had left him. John had barely switched on his phone and realised the notifications, before it rung yet again. "But basically we can't find him anywhere! We've tried looking everywhere - in Bart's, Molly's, the cemetery, got Mrs Hudson to check out Baker Street – he's disappeared, John!"_

_John fell silent, fearing grave circumstances had happened to his friend. Reluctantly, John softly pressed his thumb against the button to end the conversation as he heard Lestrade calling his name over and over again, like a distant memory._

Sherlock was meant to be fully discharged from hospital after 5 days/6 nights; 3 nights of which in emergency care, then 3 nights in the ward. But he had disturbed it down to a mere 2 days and 2 and 1/2 nights in emergency care, which struck panic in John's heart. He fully understood how crucial it was to be completely healed, especially from a gun wound, before leaving the hospital. Self discharging wasn't an option in John's case. He had visited Sherlock on the first and second day after his misfortune and was again preparing to visit him on his third day, today, at 10 o'clock that morning.

Fearing for his friend's well-being, John quickly dashed down the flights of stairs which lead directly down to the lobby. From there, he fled out into the street and hailed a taxi, unsure of where to go. One steadily drove up to John and he quickly clambered inside.

"Alrigh' mate? Where you 'eaded?" the friendly cabby asked in a gruff voice.

John, still in a daze of shock, quickly answered unintentionally: "The hospital. Bart's, please."

The ten minute cab ride gave John time to think of a plan, a strategy, to try and find Sherlock. If anyone could, John could. As soon as the taxi pulled up to Bart's hospital, John was out in a flash – just remembering to pay the taxi man before he glided into the hospital and up to the, rather surprised, receptionist.

"Hi..." John said breathlessly, "I'm here for Sherlo-"

"Sherlock self-discharged himself earlier." The receptionist interrupted, whispering under her breath, clearly meaning to keep his existence a secret still. "Mycroft told me to keep his records and paperwork... and give them to you..." she muttered softly again, drawing her hand from under the desk and handing John a wad of paper, the first sheet of which was Sherlock's self-discharging form.

John stepped aside and looked at the signature.

_221B._

He shook his head and rolled his eyes, then looked at the receptionist.

"I take it Mycroft didn't look at these?" John asked, annoyed.

"I wouldn't allow it." She smiled back.

"But you're allowing me?"

"Well you're a doctor, it makes all the difference." She responded with a wink, in a slightly ironic tone. "Just keep it hushed that I gave you these."

John exhaled a heavy sigh of relief and handed the receptionist back the papers, giving her his thanks. Once more, John hurried out from his whereabouts and hailed a taxi, this time to bring him to Baker Street. John knocked on the large black door and waited impatiently, shuffling around and rolling back his shoulders in anxiety. John was soon greeted by a concerned and flustered Mrs Hudson, who was clearly in a way about Sherlock's 'disappearance' as her hair looked particularly mad, un-brushed, and she had dark, heavy circles round her eyes.

"Oooh, John. Oh, John. I don't know where he could be! I've looked in my little flat, then in your twos upstairs and I just don't know!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, ringing her hands together furiously. John placed a caring hand on her shoulder.

"It's okay, Mrs H. I think I know where he is... I just need to see to something first." He explained, in a soft caring voice. "Why don't you pop out and get some... biscuits or something? I'm sure our fridge upstairs needs stocking up." He gave her a smile of reassurance and before Mrs H could say "I'm not your housekeeper!" John was up the stairs and stood at the entrance to his and Sherlock's residence. He stood and waited in anticipation for the front door to be slammed shut by Mrs Hudson, then once hearing this, John placed a hand on the door knob and slowly opened the door. Clearly Mrs Hudson had been in and looked around, as Sherlock never closed the door – if Mrs Hudson had glanced around... how could he still be here?

John opened the door and stepped in. Sure enough, as his signature said, Sherlock was there. He sat squatted, with his legs up to his chest and hands formed in prayer, in his wide armchair, wearing a black tight shirt to match his black suit trousers. John rolled his head back in thankfulness whilst Sherlock sat emotionless in the chair, not even reacting to John's presence, thinking.

"Sherlock... what the _hell_ are you doing?" John asked angrily as his head rolled around to tilt towards Sherlock, making his questionable expression upon his brow seem even more defined.

"Thinking." The detective replied.

"How the hell did you get past Mrs Hudson?"

"She didn't look properly, no one does. She simply saw but didn't observe. Now if you don't mind, I'm _thinking_."

John stared at him, baffled.

"You've just been shot, you've been shot, Sherlock! You should be in bloody hospital, not sitting on your chair like that and... _thinking_!"

"I'm fine."

"No, Sherlock. You lost a lot of blood that night..."

"And they've put it all back now, I'm fine!" Sherlock snapped, waving his hands as if swatting a fly when talking and then staring sternly at his friend when finished.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" John spoke. "You should be in hospital, Sherlock. You need to rest."

"John, how many times do I have to tell you? I'm fine!" Sherlock responded, almost nearing shouting, as he sprung up from his chair and walked over to John, glaring at him. John stared back just as hard.

"They were wasting my time. I could've been doing so much more than just laying in a bed waiting for myself to get _better_. It's boring, John. Sleeping, waiting, resting, it's all boring. Life is just tedious."

John shook his head and replied with heavy sarcasm. "Doing what, Sherlock? Lazing around in your own home and _thinking?_"

Sherlock, clearly offended, drew back his chin into neck and furrowed his brow.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh come on, Sherlock. Even the great consulting detective should know when someone's being sarcastic. You sit and mope around all day long, doing absolutely nothing, sitting there, in your chair, with your hands like... like in a prayer so you look cool and with your knees up and you stare into nothing so you look all that and..."

"But I _am_ all that."

"You're bloody arrogant that's what you are."

The two stood and intensely glared at one another in frustration. Sherlock quickly turned round and fiercely grabbed his coat and scarf, putting the latter on last.

"Well, where do you think _you're_ going?" John questioned.

"Out. I've had enough of my time wasted in that hospital; I have no intention to waste any more standing _here_." Sherlock answered bitterly, making hugely over-exaggerated movements when dressing himself in his coat and scarf then flicking his coat collar up. He marched towards John with purpose and stood inches from him and they furiously eyed one another, only to heighten the tension between the two. Making one last meaningful glare, Sherlock turned his body round and strode out of the flat.

"Sherlock, Sherlock!" John angrily yelled. He watched as Sherlock approached the stairs, preparing himself to decend.

"SHERLOCK!" He bellowed. Sherlock immediately stopped and brought back his shoulders to straighten himself, almost in surprise. "Get the hell back in here; I'm not finished with you yet!"

Almost instantly, Sherlock spun back around and was quickly squaring up to John again, resuming in his position of standing inches away from the doctor. The tension strengthened still.

"What? What, John?" Sherlock asked in desperately angry confusion, edging his face closer to John's with every sarcastic question asked. "What is it that you want me to do? Why do you want me to stay here? _Why do you care so much_?"

John pursed his lips in frustration as the two stood and stared at each other once more as the tension reached its peak. John found himself grabbing hold of the consulting detective's scarf and yanking it quickly towards him, which drew Sherlock's head down and into John's height. The two locked lips. John closed his eyes and furrowed his brow in desperation. However, Sherlock remained with his eyes wide open, in total surprise, but with his lips in a pout nevertheless. It was a brief, yet meaningful kiss, lasting no more than three seconds. Relaxing his grip on Sherlock's scarf, John slowly removed his lips from Sherlock's. John let his hand rest on Sherlock's chest as he looked into the detective's eyes, which seemed to stare directly in front, way above John's head.

John's eyebrows lifted into a look of anxiety and regret as he saw the shocked expression on Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock... I'm... I'm so sorry... I... uhh... I don't know what happened... I'm so sorry... I don't know what came over me and... so sorry... I... ummm..."

John's apologies flooded out thick and fast as he removed his hand, stepped back from Sherlock and bowed in head in shame, constantly looking around the room to avoid Sherlock's gaze – which had now appeared to drift down and to watch John, eagerly.

"Sherlock I know I'm meant to be just your flatmate and I'm so sorry..."

"John."

"I'm just sorry about that... I don't know what came over me..."

"John..."

"And I know you consider yourself married to your work and all and..."

"John!" Sherlock snapped firmly. He looked up at Sherlock, who watched him with his piercingly blue eyes, glistening and shining brighter than John had ever seen them do so before. They seemed keen. Hungry.

"... Kiss me again."

John raised his eyebrows, then let them drop once more; he quirked his head to the side in confusion.

"... What?"

"Kiss me again." Sherlock demanded.

Unhurriedly, John stepped a pace towards Sherlock and stood, watching him. Sherlock closed his eyes. John tilted his head up and stretched up a slight amount so that his pouted lips met Sherlock's once more. Sherlock bent down to some extent so that John was able to stand flat footed. The two embraced in a long, sweet kiss that ended as John drew away to look for reassurance into his companion's eyes, which fluttered open gradually to stare ardently back at him. Sherlock leaned in for another and the two shared a long, passionate and heartfelt smooch. Sherlock raised his arms from by his side to gently caress the doctor's face in his hands before John graciously placed his hands on Sherlock's hips and pulled his companion towards him. The kiss lasted for what seemed like forever to John and Sherlock and it even continued through Mrs Hudson's entry to 221b Baker Street.

As Sherlock Holmes slowly withdrew his bountiful lips from John Watson's, the two embraced one another in their love at long last. Sherlock gazed longingly into John's eyes, feeling a strong sort of sentiment that was so overpowering, so unfamiliar to him that he would normally feel threatened and afraid, but he accepted it and relished in it. John gazed back, giving an endearing half shy, half relieved smile as he acknowledged the strong desire that he had held in his heart melted into a sensation of tenderness and devotion to Sherlock. The two surrendered to one another's adoration. Their reunion was complete.

**FIN**

* * *

><p><em><strong>and that's it folks!<strong>_

_it's been good whilst it's lasted but i thought i don't have anything left for this story and i really want them to just bloody kiss already so yeah. why not end it on a high. hope i've done it all right.  
>thanks ever so much for reading all these chapters and sticking with this story throughout thick and thin and all that jazz and i really hope you've loved reading it as much as i've loved writing it. reviews &amp; comments on how you've found it are always appreciated, whatever time of dayday of week/week of month/month of year._

_i feel empty now. -crycry-_

_Thanks again guys! Lots of love,_

**HRM xx x**


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